Vengeance of the Red Hood
by DragonsintheMoonlight
Summary: What did Jason do in the six year gap after he died? What if he met Sherlock after assuming the identity of John Watson while he planned his revenge? Would his friendship with Sherlock help him recover from his death or only drive him even more insane? Jason will have his personality and look like Jason, not John so he'll be OOC as will John's past. No military service No slash
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay, so this is my first Sherlock-Batman crossover, so please go easy on me. I go this idea after watching Batman: Under the Red Hood, and lots and lots of Sherlock. I was wondering, what did Jason do the whole time he was planning his revenge? Surely he wasn't hiding out in some abandoned place the _whole _time. So, I got the idea to make him and John Watson the same person. I'd love it if you'd give it a chance. John's history has been changed quite a bit, Jason is twenty-years-old; he was fourteen when he was murdered and it is six years later. John will be very OOC, but I am pretty sure Jason will be spot on, since he will definitely have anger management. Sherlock will be fascinated with Jason, because he can tell he has undergone some kind of trauma, but he is still trying to deduce what. This is purely a friendship fic. I don't intend to include slash.**

**Jason's POV**

* * *

Falling at least fifty stories after being blown up and resurrected is not fun, but I didn't really care or notice right now.

My heart feels like it is going a thousand miles a minute, but somewhere where logic remains, I know that is impossible.

I hit the ground, re-breaking bones that had only just healed. I instinctively begin to set them, and wonder where the hell I learned how to do that.

I push myself off the ground after making splints, and look for a cave to spend the night in.

For some reason, I like caves.

I started to remember a few days later.

My name is Jason Todd; I was Batman's protégé, his second Robin. The Joker murdered me, with a crowbar and explosives. I am fourteen-years-old.

Before joining Batman, I lived on the streets, hijacking people's tires to live. My mother had been a heroine addict, and my father was an abusive monster who went to jail and died there.

Good riddance.

I snuck into town at one point, and learned that after my death, Batman did not kill the Joker; he just put him back in Arkham.

How could he? If it had been Bruce that had been beaten to a bloody pulp and blown-up by that psychotic freak, I swear, that clown would be _dead!_

Did Bruce just not care? Did he never really love me at all? Well, that would be just like him, considering Dick, his first Robin, rarely even visits anymore.

I would have my revenge. If Bruce would not avenge my death, then I would.

But, I have to remember; Bruce is _Batman, _an expert detective. I'd need a new name, and I certainly couldn't run around as Robin anymore.

Maybe I should go by my middle name, Peter. No, too obvious; Bruce would get it. Perhaps something else that started with a J? Maybe… John?

I'd need a last name too. Couldn't be Todd anymore. But… what was my mother's maiden name? Watson. John Watson. Yeah, it worked. I don't think B even knows what my mother's maiden name was, and if he does, he probably won't put it together. Maybe if I chose _Peter_ Watson, but I didn't.

I'd have to forge documents for that, but hey, I didn't get Bat training for nothing.

Now as for my new vigilante name… it would have to be something that I could shove in the Joker's face, yet at the same time get both the freaky clown and Bats to notice me, when I want them to, of course.

The Red Hood.

The Joker used to use that name himself; it'd be perfect.

Now, all I need is a costume.

* * *

**AN:** **Well, did you like it? I hope you did. I read this really good fic where John was made into Remus Lupin from Harry Potter, which is actually where I got the idea to make it so Jason was John Watson. I was hesitant to do it at first, but after reading that other fic, I thought what the heck? **

**I hope you enjoyed this; let's all hope that Sherlock does not drive Jason insane. He just got away from one detective, and now he is with another, and we all know Jason can only take so much before he shoots someone. :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or Sherlock. T for language and violence, because come on, we're dealing with Jason here. :)**

Jason's POV

* * *

Sometimes I wish I were still dead. Things would be so much easier if I were dead. I wouldn't be this… _angry._

I probably should have anger management classes, but I don't want them. I don't want help. I want revenge.

Meeting Sherlock Holmes was not something I expected, but since when have I ever seen anything that happens to me coming? First training with Batman, then death by fiery by explosion, followed by resurrection, six years in hiding, and now meeting Sherlock Holmes, because I am hiding from some thug I pissed off.

Thugs don't generally go into schools.

Sherlock looks at me, almost as if he is a mix of intrigued and amused. I decide to give him a bit of the Bat-glare, but he looks away, so he doesn't see much.

"Abuse or trauma?"

"What?" my tone is immediately defensive and hostile.

"Which was it?" he asks again. "Abuse or trauma?"

I continue glaring at him. What was this bastard talking about? Abuse or trauma? How could he know…?

"Both," I snarl.

A blond woman comes into the room holding a cp of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you," he takes it from her.

"What happened to the lipstick?" he asks the woman-Molly.

"It… wasn't working for me," she says.

"Really? I thought it was a huge improvement. Your mouth's much too small now," he comments.

"…Okay," she says, clearly offended, but not about to express it. She turns around and leaves the room.

"You wouldn't happen to have a phone I could borrow, would you?" he asks.

I fish my phone out of my pocket, muttering a few things to myself in Italian, and give it to him.

Sherlock begins texting something, but I really can't care less about what it is.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asks me.

"Sorry, what?" I ask.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking," he says. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flat-mates should know the worst about each other."

_Well, you're not going to know the worst about me, sorry. _"Who said anything about flat-mates?"

What if this guy is another psychotic freak that is going to attempt murder on me, again. Technically it wasn't _attempted _with the Joker, it was _succeeded, _but I don't think I'll be resurrected a second time. If I am, I'll probably be completely insane.

"_I _did," he says. "There's no need to be defensive; you're obviously on your own and not well-off, judging by the way you look and dress," I look down at myself, offended, and he continues "and then there's the fact that you have obviously been through some traumatic, possibly abusive experience, making it clear that you won't seek help from anyone, and now you're here with me, someone who also is looking for a flat-mate, but having trouble finding one. I don't believe in coincidences; it wasn't that difficult a leap."

"What makes you think I went through something abusive and _traumatic?" _I hate that word. I hate both of them. Abuse and trauma. I have had too much of that.

He ignores me. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," he says. "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry – got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary. "

"Is that it?" I ask, still glaring.

"Is that what?" he asks.

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" _I'm not that stupid! _"We don't know a thing about each other." For all I know, you're another bastard who's going to kill me the first chance you get. I might just be being paranoid, but after dying and coming back to life, I think I have a right to my trust issues.

"I know you're an American, obviously moved to London recently. You're not very well-off, living on your own, because you refuse to seek help from any family members or friends," he says, "You obviously went through an abusive, traumatic experience, judging by the way you hold yourself; the tenseness to your muscles, the way you look around every few minutes as if afraid someone is going to come out of nowhere and attack you, and then there's the look in your eyes- you're afraid what happened to you once is going to happen to you again, but you're also doing everything in your power to make sure it doesn't. You seem like a very angry young man to be honest, as if you feel you've been betrayed. You also obviously have trust issues, there's a part of you that wants to contradict everything anyone says, because you don't believe anyone is genuine anymore about anything they say or do. Is that enough to be going on?"

I stare at him, wondering if I should get my gun out and shoot him or not. He knows too much about me; I'm running from my past right now; no one can know that much about me.

But my hand doesn't even move towards my gun. I don't want to kill him.

"The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street," he says before winking and exiting the room.

I follow a few minutes after, getting back outside the college, figuring the thug would be gone by now.

"Hey, you!"

_Oh, shit. _

I spin around to see the man I pissed off in that alleyway earlier, who happens to be three times my size coming towards me. I may have had Bat-training, but if I go up against him, I'll probably wind up killing him and then a whole new kind of chaos will start considering I am not in costume right now.

I turn around and run away, darting into the shadows and disappearing like Bruce taught me.

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you guys think? I told you John would be OOC since he is Jason, but I hope I got Jason right. Next chapter should involve more of a Study in Pink, where I will show how it would have been if John really had been Jason. Jason also has the streak of white in his hair, but he dyes it so no one asks about it.**

**Thanks for reading, :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Batman**

Jason's POV

* * *

I have absolutely no idea why the hell I am doing this, but the next day at seven; I go to 221B Baker Street.

It reminds me a little too much about how I stupidly went to the location where the Joker caught me and then killed me. Here I am going to a random address to meet someone I barely know; doesn't this seem familiar?

"Hello," I spin around to see Sherlock approaching me after paying the cabbie that drove him here.

I walk cautiously up to him, but not in a way that would make me appear afraid. "Mr. Holmes." _Wouldn't Alfred be _so _proud of me, using the word 'Mister'?_

To be honest, I don't know why I am showing him even a sliver of respect; I just am. It's not very like me, I mean, when I first met Bruce, I was hijacking his tires and then hit him in the gut with a tire iron.

Ah, what _happy _memories I have. Not.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock says.

"This is a prime spot; must be expensive," I comment. This is usually the kind of neighborhood I expect rich people to live in; rich people who sometimes to out to be mob bosses who I sometimes kill.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out," Sherlock says.

"You stopped his execution?" I ask.

"No, I ensured it," Sherlock says as the door opens.

A woman, who I assume is Mrs. Hudson, puts her arms around Sherlock. "Sherlock, hello." She says it tenderly, lovingly.

I try not to stare at her, one thought running through my mind: _When did Alfred get a sister?_

"Mrs. Hudson, this is John Watson," Sherlock says, gesturing to me.

"Hello," she says.

"Hi," I say back, trying to curb some of my now natural hostile personality.

"Come in," Mrs. Hudson says, gesturing for us to go inside.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asks as we come to a staircase.

"Yeah," I say. _As long as there aren't any explosives upstairs. Or crowbars._

I follow him up the stairs, still wondering if this is a bad idea or not. I can always go back to one of the many warehouses I turned to safe houses. It's not too late to run, Todd.

I follow Sherlock inside the room, but instead of finding crowbars and explosives, there are nothing but boxes and clutter. Alfred would freak out if any room in Bruce's manor was left like this… damn it, I need to stop thinking about any of the few good memories I have; I need to focus on revenge.

"Well? What do you think?" Sherlock asks.

"It's lovely," I say.

"Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I went straight ahead and moved in," Sherlock says.

My attention is captured almost instantly by a skull on the mantle. "Nice skull."

"Ah, friend of mine," Sherlock says. "When I say 'friend'…"

I all of a sudden get an almost vindictive smile of evil glee as I imagine one day having the Joker's skull on a mantle.

"What?" Sherlock asks, eyeing my expression. I get rid of it before he can attempt to deduce anything else.

"Nothing," I say.

Mrs. Hudson comes up to us. "What do you think, then, Mister Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms."

"Of course we'll need two," I say, confused on why she'd think to the contrary. Did she think…?

"Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here. Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones," she says.

Apparently she does. A large part of me wants to yell at her to stop making false assumptions; it takes a lot to suppress that part.

Mrs. Hudson goes into the kitchen and begins to tidy up. "Oh, Sherlock, the mess you've made."

"I looked you up on the internet last night," I tell Sherlock.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asks.

"Found your website," I say, "The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?" he asks proudly.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb," I say. _I don't think even Bruce would claim something like that._

"Yes; and I can read your abusive and traumatic past by the way you hold yourself and the fact that you expect danger at every turn by the way you dart your eyes every now and then," he says.

"How?" I ask. Is it like what Bats taught me? How to read tells so we can look at each other and know just what to do in a fight?

Sherlock just smiles and turns away, pissing me off quite a bit, since Bruce used to withhold information from me at times too, and Mrs. Hudson returns to the room, holding a newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same," she says.

"Four," he says, watching a cop car pull up. "There's been a fourth. And there's something different this time."

Generally when cops show up, that's when I get the hell out of here, but this time, I am pretty sure I didn't do anything wrong.

A man in a police uniform who reminds me of Commissioner Gordon from my days as Robin comes up the stairs and begins conversing with Sherlock.

"Where?" Sherlock asks immediately.

The officer replies, "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock asks. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" the man asks.

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" the officer asks.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock inquires.

"It's Anderson," the officer replies.

Sherlock grimaces. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant," the officer attempts to coerce him.

"I _need_ an assistant," Sherlock insists.

"Will you come?" the officer asks.

"Not in a police car," Sherlock says, "I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," he says before exiting the room.

As soon as the officer is out the front door, Sherlock jumps with joy, dancing about so much like a mad man, I almost pull out my gun.

"Brilliant!" he exclaims. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!"

He picks up his scarf and coat and starts to put them on as he heads for the kitchen_._

Does he like… innocents dying? I mean, sure, I've killed people, bad people. Drug dealers. Crime lords, people like that. But innocent people committing suicide in the same way that I would definitely see as murder?

"Mrs. Hudson, I'll be late," he says. "Might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson chides in the same sort of tone Alfred would use when scolding someone, which usually consisted of Bruce, Dick, and me.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock says. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

"Look at him, dashing about! _My_ husband was just the same," Mrs. Hudson. "But you're a more quiet type, I can tell. Not really the type to get excited."

She's right there; unless it's at the thought of the Joker dying painfully as I did…

"I'll make you that cuppa," she says, making her way towards the kitchen.

"It's all right; I'm fine," I tell her. I haven't let anyone do anything for me in six years, and before I became Robin I was the one providing for my mom.

"Your sure?" she asks.

I nod. "Yeah, thanks though. _Why am I being so polite?_

As she exits, I see Sherlock hovering in the doorway. "You have medical training, don't you?"

"What?"

"The way you walk," he says. "States you broke your leg once and took care of it yourself with homemade splints. You studied any medicine?"

I nod. Bruce did make sure I got good schooling after adopting me. Medicine and criminology were two of the courses I learned.

"Could you determine the cause of death on a body?" he asks.

I nod. "Yeah."

"Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths," he says, coming closer.

"Yes," I say. The civilians in Gotham we were too late to save, and then there is my own death…

"Bit of trouble too, I bet," Sherlock says, his eyes taking in any tell I could possibly give off. I try to restrain them all.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much," I say. It was too much. I had already seen my mother die, I knew my father was dead, having died in jail, the violent deaths of anyone we didn't save…

A crowbar, raised above me, coming down over and over again, maniacal laughter…

_Which hurts worse? A or B? Forehand? Or backhand?_

The sound of a ticking bomb… the feeling of death as it blew me up…

"Wanna see some more?" Sherlock asks.

I see the Joker dead before me.

"Oh _God_, yes," I say.

We begin to hurry downstairs, and Sherlock calls, "Mrs. Hudson, we're off!"

"Both of you?" she asks.

Sherlock walks up to her and kisses her noisily on the cheek. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!"

"Look at you, all happy," she says. "It's not decent."

Why? It's not like it's the Joker who is happy over death, not that he's ever not happy over death. I would know, I dream about his laughter and his crowbar every night.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" he says, dashing outside.

I follow him.

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouts.

The taxi pulls along side the curb, and we both get in. I honestly don't trust cabbies; you never know who they are.

* * *

**AN: Well, two updates in one day! Never done that before, but I am having a lot of fun writing this topic. I hope you guys enjoy reading it! We'll get more interactions later on. I'd love some feedback on this; I've never thought to put characters like Jason and Sherlock in the same fic before.**

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**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock.**_

Jason's POV

* * *

"Okay, you've got questions," Sherlock says.

_Damn right, I do. _"Where are we going?" I don't like going to unknown destinations. Reminds me too much of being kidnapped by the clown.

"Crime scene," Sherlock says, bored. "Next."

"Who are you? What do you do?"

"What do you think?" he asks.

"I'd say private detective…"

"But?"

"But the cops don't go to private detectives," I say.

"I'm a consulting detective," he says. "Only one in the world; I invented the job."

"What the hell does that mean?" I ask, though it sounds _really _similar to what B is, only he dresses up as a bat and beats up the criminals with young children fighting alongside him.

"It means that when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me," Sherlock says.

"You mean like how in Gotham the Commissioner lets Batman take down all the bad guys?" I ask. "I don't see a suit on you, or a mask."

Sherlock gives me a peevish look. "_I _don't need either of those things. All I need is my mind. When I met you yesterday, I said 'Abuse or trauma', you looked surprised. In an angry, hidden way, but the surprise was still there in the way you got extra tense."

"Yeah, how did you know about that?" I ask, wanting to know _now _how he knew even the smallest facts about my past. It'll help me determine whether or not he is truly a threat or not.

"I didn't know, I saw; when you came in the room, after clearly been running away from someone, I noticed instantly that your physical demeanor was very tense. The way you carried yourself, your eyes darting around the room, it all said that somewhere in your life you'd been hurt some way, and now, now you look for trouble everywhere, always wondering when it's going to find you, or when you're going to find it," he says, "the way you walked didn't suggest that you have problems with your legs, but it did tell me through the slightest movements that you'd broken them before, and fixed them yourself. But then there's also the matter of the look in your eyes- it suggests something traumatic may have happened to you, but you won't go for help, possibly because there's no one to help you, possibly because you don't _want _help. So either way, you have either been abused or traumatized in some way, and you answered both, hence the original question: 'Abuse or trauma?"

I notice Sherlock bite his lip nervously, waiting for my answer, as if he is afraid he overdid it.

"That… was interesting." I don't have another word for it. He is just like Bats, always knowing _everything._

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah, it was…" _come on think of a nice word, Todd, _"extraordinary." That's not a word I use often. I don't know if I have _ever _used it.

"That's not what most people say," Sherlock says.

_Yeah, well I'm not most people. _"What do most people say?" I ask.

"Piss off," Sherlock says.

I can't help but laugh at that.

We both start laughing in the backseat of the cab, and I realize that this is the first time I have laughed in six years.

* * *

After we get out of the cab and begin to walk towards the police tape, Sherlock asks, "Did I get anything wrong?"

"I have been through… abusive and traumatic experiences," I say, "don't bother asking me what they were; I won't tell you, and don't bother guessing, because I highly doubt you'll guess _exactly_ what happened," I say. Detective or not, I don't think he'll guess that a crazy clown beat me nearly to death with a crowbar and then left me in a warehouse rigged with explosives. Might guess the part about my abusive father, but that's not what really set me on edge when it comes to trust. "You're also right about me not really having anyone to go to for help, and even if I did, I wouldn't ask them for it."

"Spot on then; didn't expect to get everything right," Sherlock says.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" I ask. _I will never be lured into another trap again._

Sherlock ignores me.

"Hello, freak!" a woman calls. She's obviously police force, and obviously doesn't get a long with Sherlock, and when she says the word 'freak', one image flashes through my mind: the Joker laughing while swinging his crowbar down at me.

Sherlock is not a freak.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock says, referring to the officer that came by the flat earlier.

"Why?" the woman asks.

"I was invited," Sherlock replies.

"_Why?" _the woman looks appalled.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock says, sarcastically.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?" the woman asks.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock says. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

"I don't- who's this?" the woman-Sally-says, looking at me.

I glare at her, my blue eyes narrowing until I am only a few steps down from the Bat-glare.

"Colleague of mine," Sherlock says. "John Watson. John, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan."

"A colleague? How do _you _get a colleague?" she asks, turning to look at me, "Did _he _follow you home?"

"The only people who are stupid enough to follow me home wind up in hospitals," I snap back.

Sherlock chuckles at that, lifting the tape. "Come on."

I step under it with him.

Donovan sighs, and says into her radio, "freak's here; bringing him in."

She leads us towards the house, when a man dressed in coverall comes out. I immediately don't like him; he reminds me of some of the more snooty people I used to avoid whenever Bruce would have one of his charity events.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock says the name with loathing. "Here we are again."

"It's a crime scene," Anderson says. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

_Then what are you doing here? _I wonder in the back of my mind.

"Quite clear," Sherlock says. "Is your wife away for long?"

"Don't pretend you worked that out," Anderson snarls. "Someone told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that," Sherlock says.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men," Sherlock says, smugly.

"Well of course it's for men; _I'm _wearing it," Anderson snaps.

"So is Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock says, sniffing.

"Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?" Sherlock says.

"Now look: whatever you're trying to imply-" Anderson starts.

"I'm not implying _anything," _Sherlock cuts him off_. "_I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," he begins to head towards the house,

"And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

I struggle to hold back snickers as I follow Sherlock inside, while Anderson and Donovan stare at him in horror.

We go into a room where Lestrade is putting on a coverall.

"You need to wear one of these," Sherlock gestures to the coveralls.

I look at them in disgust. "No." why the hell would I want to put on coveralls? To protect myself from the dead body? I've _been _a dead body!

"Who's this?" Lestrade asks, taking off his gloves.

"He's with me," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, but who is he?" Lestrade asks.

"I _said _he's with me," Sherlock says.

"He doesn't put on coveralls either?" Lestrade asks, looking at me in a way that makes me want to punch him.

Sherlock's face remains impassive. "Apparently not. So where are we of to?"

"Upstairs," Lestrade says, picking up another pair of latex gloves.

He leads us up a circular staircase until we come to a room that's completely empty except for the dead body of a blond woman wearing way too much pink.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade says.

"May need longer," Sherlock replies casually.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. She hasn't been here long. Some kids found her," Lestrade says.

Huh, I _wonder _what _kids _were doing in here. Probably something incredibly stupid, most likely something I would have done when I was a kid. My motto had been: "Boost what it takes to survive", after all.

Sherlock stares at the body for a moment, and then looks back at Lestrade. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade says, startled.

"You were thinking; it was annoying," Sherlock says.

Sherlock slowly steps forward until he is right next to the body beginning to examine it.

I cross my arms over my chest, and look away, remembering my own body had once lay dead on the floor of an abandoned building. The only difference is that the woman has a look of fear and sadness on her face… when I saw the bomb and knew I was going to die, I just closed my eyes and excepted it, realizing there was no way out.

The woman, Jennifer Wilson as Lestrade said, has carved the word 'Rache' into the ground. I know German, so I know it means revenge, but was that _really _what she was aiming to write? Was she indeed German? Most would think so, but after my tenure with Batman as Robin, I have learned to expect the unexpected, not that I wasn't always on the lookout for the unexpected before Batman took me in, I _was _a street rat after all.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asks as Sherlock strips his gloves off.

"Not much," Sherlock replies nonchalantly, taking out his phone and beginning to do something on it.

I notice that Anderson guy appear in the doorway before anyone else does; you can't sneak up on a Bat, even an ex-bat.

"She's German," Anderson says in his annoying voice. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something-"

Sherlock gets up and closes the door in his face, continuing to do something on his phone. "Yes, thank you for your input."

"So, she's German?" Lestrade asks.

Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night..." he says, smiling smugly as he puts the phone away, "returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

I raise an eyebrow at him. He reminds me of Bruce; he seems to know everything. Well, not _everything. _He doesn't know that his new flat-mate is an ex-Robin who returned from the grave six years ago.

"What about the message though?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock ignores him and looks at me. "John, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" I ask. _I think it is stupid to use the last moments of your life to carve into the ground with your fingernails._

"Of the body; you have medical experience," he says, his eyes darting towards my legs once more. _That's not the only thing I have broken you know! I've broken arms, ribs, fingers…_

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside," Lestrade says, a worried tone coming to his voice.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock insists.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here," Lestrade exclaims.

"Yes," Sherlock says, "because you need me."

Lestrade stares at him, sighing helplessly. "Yes, I do. God help me."

"John." Sherlock looks at me.

Sometimes, that name _still _sounds weird to me, but hey, it's just until I get my revenge. I'll always be Jason Todd on the inside.

My eyes dart over to Lestrade. If I go over to that body, is he going to set a mob of his officers on me? Now would _not _be a good time for me to go to jail; you can't exactly plot and enact revenge on psychotic clowns in a cell.

"Oh, do as he says," Lestrade sighs, making to exit the room. "Help yourself. Anderson, keep everyone out of here for a few minutes."

"Well?" Sherlock asks expectantly.

"What am I doing here?" I ask hostilely, not really liking the situation. It's better than some of the situations I've gotten myself into, but still.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock whispers softly.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," I immediately go on the defensive route.

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," Sherlock whispers.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," I say. _I certainly didn't find it fun when I was dead, and it's highly unlikely this woman deserved to die._

"Perfectly sound analysis," Sherlock says, "but I _was_ hoping you'd go deeper."

Lestrade comes back into the room and stands in the doorway, watching us. I get down in a kneeling position and lean close to the woman's body, getting a better look at her. I lift her right hand and look at the skin.

I sit up straighter and look at Sherlock. "Asphyxiation. She passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs." _I know it was drugs; this was how my mother looked when she died of an overdose, the needle still in her arm._

"You know what it was," Sherlock says. "You've read the papers."

"She's one of the suicides." It's not a question. "The fourth."

"Sherlock, I said two minutes," Lestrade says. "I need anything you got." He sounds desperate.

"Victim is in her late thirties," Sherlock starts, "Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade asks, confused.

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock waves him off, "She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up..." Lestrade exclaims exasperated.

Sherlock points down at her left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. There's the state of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger.

"It's not for work;" Sherlock continues, "Look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who _does_ she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

I stare at him a moment, eyebrows raised towards my black hair and the dyed white stripe. He could give B a run for his money.

"Cardiff?" Lestrade asks.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, sounding annoyed.

"It's not obvious to me," Lestrade says.

Sherlock gazes at us in shock. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring."

I tense, offended, but doing nothing about it. Now would be a good time to exercise some restraint over my anger issues.

Sherlock turns back to the body. "Her coat is slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours," he says. "No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused. Not just wind, _strong_ wind – too strong to use her umbrella.

"We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" he pulls out his phone and shows us a web page he must have found earlier. "Cardiff."

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asks.

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock asks. "She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"Wait, she was writing Rachel?" Lestrade asks.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Sherlock says sarcastically. _"Of course_ she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. The question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Lestrade inquires.

Look at the back of the right leg," Sherlock says. "There are tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, but none are present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

He kneels down by the woman, looking closer at her legs.

"Now, where is it?" Sherlock demands. "What have you done with it?"

"There wasn't a case." Lestrade says, somberly.

Sherlock looks up at him. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade repeats. "There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock immediately gets up and hurries out the door, beginning to go down the stairs. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

_Lestrade and I run out after him, pausing on the railing I could flip down using some the acrobatics I was taught during my time as Robin._

"Sherlock, there was no case!" Lestrade shouts.

"But they take the poison themselves," he insists. "They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs; even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks! _And_...?" Lestrade asks, annoyed as possible.

I just watch, not really knowing what to do with the situation. I'm kind of out of my comfort zone. So many people, the killer isn't already here so I can just shoot him… and Sherlock is… I don't have a word for it. In a way he reminds me of Bruce, but at the same time, he is Bruce's polar opposite.

I feel like I am going crazy. Make that _crazier._

"It's murder, all of them," Sherlock insists, pausing on the staircase. "I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings–_serial_ killings." He all of a sudden looks positively _delighted._

"We've got ourselves a serial killer." Sherlock says gleefully. "I _love_ those. There's always something to look forward to."

He _loves _serial killers? How can someone love serial killers! The Joker is a serial killer and he has filled entire graveyards with innocent bodies. He killed me, and Bruce did nothing but toss him back in Arkham. The only thing you can look forward to with serial killers is violent and painful death!

"Her case!" Sherlock shouts. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here and forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," I say, controlling my previous anger. I don't want it to be a serial killer. Reminds me too much of the clown, though these deaths look a lot easier, quicker, and less painful than mine was.

No, she never got to her hotel," Sherlock insists. "Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She would never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..."

"Oh." His eyes widen, face lighting up. Why don't I like where this is going?

"_Oh!" _He claps in glee, reminding me a little too much of someone who has gone crazy.

"Sherlock?" I ask, my mind going over every weapon I have on me: my gun, a couple of tasers, a few batarangs…

Lestrade leans over the railing, staring at Sherlock. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock grins like the Cheshire cat. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade exclaims furiously.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock shouts joyfully, beginning to run down the stairs again.

"Look at her, really _look_!" he says, "Houston, we _have_ a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

"Of course, yeah– but what mistake?!" Lestrade calls.

"Pink!" Sherlock yells.

_What?_

* * *

**AN: Well, what did you guys think? I tried to keep the dialogue pretty close to the show, but I had to change some of it to make it more Jason-like. He doesn't exactly have the same personality as John, :). I hope you enjoyed the chapter; I'd really love some feed back on this.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Batman**_

Jason's POV

* * *

By the time I finally get out of that old house, I can't find Sherlock anywhere.

"He's gone," Donovan calls from by the tape.

"Sherlock?"

"Yeah, he just took off," she says. "He tends to do that."

"He's not coming back, is he?" I already know the answer.

"Didn't look like it," she replies.

Well, that's just fine. I prefer to be alone anyway, and I am used to the streets… when I actually know which one I am on.

"Right, where am I?" I ask her, not having a single clue where I am. I haven't memorized London's streets like I did Gotham's. In Gotham, I knew all the best ways to maneuver the streets, hiding and running away, getting what I needed to get done to keep my mother alive, to keep myself alive too, though my mother was always the priority.

"Brixton," she says.

"Right, thanks," I say, beginning to walk off.

"You're not his friend you know," she says.

I turn back around. "What?"

"He doesn't _have _friends," she says. "So who are you?"

_Someone who doesn't have friends either. Someone who grew up on the streets until I was adopted by Batman. Someone who did time as Robin. Someone who was murdered by the Joker and resurrected by Ra's Al Ghul._

"I'm nobody," I say. That is what I am now. Jason Todd is gone, for now at least. "I just met him."

"Okay, a bit of advice then: stay away from that guy," she says.

"Why?" Who are you to tell me what to do, lady?

"You know why he's here?" she asks. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there."

_Gets off on it? Like how B gets off on fighting crime? Like how I get off on the idea of my revenge? Like how the Joker gets off on killing?_

"Why would he do that?" I have a hard time imagining Sherlock as a murderer.

"Because he is a psychopath," Donovan says. "Psychopaths get bored."

I gaze at her for a moment. _No one knows that better than me. The Joker drew out my death because he wanted _entertainment _from it._

'_Which hurts worse: A or B?'_

"Donovan!" Lestrade calls.

"Coming!" she shouts back. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she says to me.

I gaze after her for a moment. _She has no idea how bored psychopaths can get._

I turn around and begin to walk away, and then the phones begin to ring.

* * *

As I walk down the street, they keep ringing. I have never seen phones do this, and I have seen a _lot _of weird things. It makes me want to shoot them full of bullets; I have plenty after all.

I keep walking, until finally I can't take it anymore, and as usual, do something rash and stupid: exactly what got me killed in the first place.

I go into one of the ringing telephone booths and pick up the phone. "What?" I snarl into it.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" a male voice asks.

My eyes dart over there. "Yeah, so?"

"Watch."

The camera moves, no longer looking at me.

"What the hell do you want?" I snarl.

The voice ignores me. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

I look over at it, and see that it has done the same thing as the first. "Yeah."

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right," the voice says.

The camera over there has moved too.

_Shit, I'm screwed. Looks like I am going to die a second time, and I haven't even gotten my revenge! Well, this time I do have one advantage: my guns._

"What do you want?" I ask again, ignoring the instinct to reach for a gun or a batarang or something to use as a weapon.

"Get in the car, Mr. Watson."

A black vehicle pulls up. _Damn. This is bad; I should try to run now._

"I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you," the voice says, and then the line goes dead.

I put the phone down. Okay, two options. One: I can start shooting everyone in the van, most likely having them fire back, and possibly getting arrested because _someone _will call the police, or I can go with them, and only shoot them when they are about to kill me, most likely in a less conspicuous place.

As much as my instincts tell me to go with option one, logic wins and tells me to try option two. I am not the fourteen-year-old boy I once was. I won't be murdered again; I'll do the murdering first if I have to.

I get into the car.

There is a woman in the backseat with me, texting.

"So, who are you then?" I ask. She's obviously some kind of minion that works for whoever that voice belonged to.

"Um… Anthea," she says.

"That's not your real name," I say, knowing it to be fact.

"No, John, it isn't," she says, looking smug that she knows my name, but I don't know hers. Little does _she _know that 'John' isn't my real name at all. Ha! Take that, bitch!

"You're not going to tell me where I am going either, are you?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"No," she says.

_Fine, as long as it is a remote place where I can kill people without being caught, if they try to kill me, which they most likely will._

I will _never _be anyone's victim ever again.

* * *

The place I am taken to is an abandoned warehouse… _yay! What a lovely place to die._

A man with an umbrella is waiting for me. "Have a seat John." He gestures to a chair in front of him.

_What, so you can tie me to it? No thanks. You can never let anyone get you down, sitting, lying down, any of them. If you do, you've lost the fight._

_The Joker had me lying down, and I died, that's where my logic comes from._

"No," I say, hostility creeping into my voice like a shadow creeps along the wall. I really want to pull out my gun right now…

He looks at me searchingly. "You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening," I snap right back. Compared to the Joker, this guy is as lame as the Penguin or the Riddler.

"Ah, you're _brave," _he says. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" He gazes at me a moment. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"What's it to you?" I growl.

"Since yesterday you have moved into a flat with him and now you are solving crime together," he says. "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

I really want to shoot this guy.

"Who the hell are you?" I snarl, giving him the Bat-glare.

He does look surprised by the intensity of my glare, but recovers soon enough. "An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends," I say, scrutinizing him with my eyes, taking in every detail I can.

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?" the man asks.

_About as many as I do; zero._

"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," he continues.

"And what's that?" I snap impatiently.

"An enemy."

"An enemy?" Like how the Joker is Bruce's enemy?

"In his mind, certainly," he says, "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank God _you're _above all that," I say sarcastically.

The man frowns at me, and then my stupid phone gets a text.

Glaring, I pull it out.

Baker Street.  
Come at once  
if convenient.  
SH

"I hope I'm not distracting you," the man says.

I can already imagine my fist connecting with his face. "You're not distracting me at all."

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" he asks.

"What the hell's it to you? It's none of your business," I snap, some of the rage I developed after being resurrected coming through.

"It _could _be," he says.

_Oh, yeah? How?_

"No is really couldn't," I say, confidently. I am not afraid of him; he is not the Joker, and I am not fourteen.

"If you do move into, um ... 221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," he says.

This creep thinks he can buy my loyalty? I'd rather go back to boosting tires off cars.

"Oh, yeah, in exchange for what?" I won't work for him, or anyone else ever again.

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to," he says, trying to be sly.

It doesn't work on me.

"Why?" I growl like Bruce would.

"I worry about him…" he says. "Constantly."

I get another message.

If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
SH

I look back up. "No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," he says.

"Don't bother," I say.

"You're very loyal, very quickly," he comments.

_No, I'm not; I just don't like being used._

"No, I'm just not interested," I say.

"You have trust issues," he says.

"What?"

"Could it be that you have decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?" he asks, curiously.

"Who says I trust him?" my voice comes out bitter.

"You don't seem the type to make friends easily," he comments.

_You're right; I'm not._

"Are we done?" I growl.

"You tell me," he says with a smirk.

I begin to walk away, careful not to turn my back on him too quickly, and to pay very close attention to my surroundings.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen," the man says.

I turn back around angrily. "My what?"

"Show me," he says, equably.

Annoyed, I lift up my left hand.

He takes a few steps forward and reaches for my hand.

I immediately jerk away, not wanting him, or anyone else, to touch me. Every time I am touched, I am reminded of the contact I received from the Joker, from my father… I am reminded of every injury I have ever received when there was nothing I could do about it.

"Don't," I say, my voice fir and defensive.

The man glazes at me long enough, until I finally lower my hand, allowing him to look at it, even though I don't want him or anyone else touching me.

"Remarkable," he comments.

"What?!" I've had enough.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see your past… some of the things you used to do, both good and bad," he says.

"What's wrong with my hand?" I ask impatiently.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," he replies.

"So?"

"Most therapists who would look at this would say that this is a post-traumatic stress disorder," he says. "They'd think you were haunted by memories from you past. They'd have it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

"So what?"

"You're not haunted by your past, Mr. Watson," he says, "you miss it."

I freeze, listening to his words. I don't miss that! I don't miss getting beaten by the Joker and blown up!

But he's not referring to that. He is referring to my time as Robin. He is referring to when I would put on red, yellow, and green, and go up on the rooftops with B, stopping the bad guys.

He's referring to the time after my adoption, but before I was murdered.

He is right.

I may go out as Red Hood right now, but it is still not the same. I am full of rage and anger and I am alone, it is not like how it was with Bruce… I wasn't so angry back then, and B was always with me…

No, I don't need anyone; I am a loner. I always have been.

"Welcome back," the man whispers in my ear and then starts to walk away, twirling his umbrella. "Time to choose a side, Mr. Watson."

My phone gets another text.

Grudgingly, I look at it.

Could be dangerous.

SH

_Screw danger; my entire life has been in danger since the moment I was born._

I need to get to 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**AN: I hope you guys enjoy this chapter; I am having a lot of fun writing this, I don't want to stop, :). We'll see Sherlock again next chapter.**

**Again, I would love your feedback on this. I take all opinions into consideration.**

**Thanks for reading; it makes my day :),**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

I get back to the flat to see Sherlock lying on the couch, breathing in deeply as if meditating, though it also kind of reminds me of someone who is high.

"What the hell are you doing?" I ask.

"Nicotine patch," he says, lifting his arm to show three patches on his arm. "Helps me think. It's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days."

"It's good news for breathing," I mutter sardonically. Sure I used to smoke, but I don't anymore. B didn't let me, and I don't see the point now. Guess dying did teach me something after all.

"Oh, breathing. Breathing's boring," Sherlock scoffs.

I raise my eyebrows. Did he really just say that to someone who's died? I didn't get to breathe when I was dead; trust me, it is not boring.

"So, three patches?" _And I thought my mother was an addict._

"It's a three patch problem," he says.

"Well?"

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"You asked me to come here, was it important or not?" I snap.

"Oh, yeah, of course, can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asks.

"What?"

"Don't want to use mine," he says. "Always a chance the number will be recognized; it's on the website."

"You know, Mrs. Hudson has a phone," I'm starting to get angry; that's not a good thing.

"Yeah, she's downstairs," Sherlock says. "I tried shouting, but she didn't hear."

I don't believe this guy. "I was on the other side of London." _Keep it together, Todd, do not get the gun out._

"There was no hurry," Sherlock says mildly.

Furiously, I dig my phone out of my pocket and thrust it at him.

He takes it, getting up and walking around with it in-between his palms, a strange look on his face.

"So what is this about?" I ask impatiently. "The case?"

"Her case," he says. "Her suitcase, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"He took her case, so what?" I ask.

"It's no use," he mutters to himself. "There's no other way; we'll have to risk it. on my desk there's another; I need you to send a text."

"You brought me here to send a _text?!" _Piles upon piles of suppressed rage begin to flow from me, but Sherlock doesn't even seem to notice.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk."

I snatch the phone away from him and stalk towards the window, tempted to commit murder.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks, once again lying on the couch, his hands folded under his chin.

"I just met a friend of yours," I mutter.

"A friend?" he looks concerned.

"An enemy," I amend.

"Oh," he relaxes, "which one?"

"Your arch-enemy," I say. "I didn't expect you to have an arch-enemy." _You're not Batman, you're not me, you're not some other costumed vigilante fighting psychopaths…_

Sherlock narrows his eyes at me suspiciously. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?" he asks.

"_No," _I snarl. Did he really think I'd be bought so easily?

"Pity," he says, "we could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

I give him a look. Is he _nuts? _That's like the Joker paying Robin to spy on Batman and the two of them splitting the fee… it's _going _to end in disaster!

"Who was he?" I ask.

"The most dangerous man you'll ever meet, not my problem right now," he says, "on my desk; the number."

_He is not the most dangerous man I'll ever meet! That title is reserved for the Joker. The Joker makes that guy look like a happy kitten running around in a meadow of bright flowers… a place I'd rather _die _than go to._

I pick up the piece of paper on the desk. "Jennifer Wilson. That was... Hang on. That was the dead woman."

"Yes," Sherlock sounds annoyed and in a hurry, "that's not important. Just enter the number."

I get out my phone and type in the number.

"Have you done it?" he asks.

"Yep," I say.

"These words exactly: "What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out," Sherlock says, "Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come"

I type it in. "You blacked out?"

"What? No. No!" he springs up, walks _over _the coffee table to stand beside me in the kitchen. "Have you sent it?"

"Yes," I say.

"Good," he stalks back into the other room and pulls out a pink case, unzipping it.

"That's the pink lady's case," I say. "Jennifer Wilson."

"Yes, obviously," he says in a condescending tone that makes me want to hit him.

I stare at him.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention that I _didn't _kill her," he snaps.

"Never said you did," I say, unfazed.

"Why not?" Sherlock questions. "Given the text I just had you send and the fact I that have her case, it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?" I ask. I honestly am not one to talk, considering I have killed people myself, but I am curious. I don't believe he's killed anyone though. Donovan was wrong. Sherlock doesn't _like _death; he just likes solving crime. He finds it interesting.

"Now and then, yes," Sherlock says with a smirk.

"So, how'd you get the case?" I ask.

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," he begins to explain, "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention – particularly a man, which is statistically more likely – so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens... and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. It took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink?" I ask. "You got all that, because you realized the case would be pink?"

"Well it _had _to be pink, obviously," Sherlock says.

"Why didn't I think of that?" I ask sarcastically.

"Because you're an idiot," he says nonchalantly.

I give him the full-on Bat-glare, and this time, he notices all of it.

"Don't give me that _creepy _look," he complains. "Practically everyone is."

Eventually, I lower the Bat-glare, and go back to my regular glare.

"Now, look," Sherlock says as soon as I am no longer giving him B's signature look. "Do you see what's missing?"

"From the case? How _could_ I?" I ask sarcastically.

"Her phone," he sounds exasperated. "Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one – that's her number there; you just texted it."

"Maybe she left it at home," I say with annoyance all throughout my voice.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it," he says with exasperation. "She never leaves her mobile phone at home!"

"Why did I just send that text?" I fight to keep the worry out of my voice.

"Well, the question is, where is her phone _now?" _he says.

"You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she left it when she left her case," Sherlock says, "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"I just texted a murderer?!" _Great, I'm going to end up in a warehouse with a crowbar and explosives all over again!_

The phone begins to ring. Sherlock and I both stare at it.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..." Sherlock says, "would _panic!"_

"So, have you told the cops?" I ask, figuring that would be the next step in this. After all, B always worked with Gordon.

"Four people are dead," Sherlock says, "there isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to _me?" _I find a flaw in his logic.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull," Sherlock says casually.

"So I'm filling in for your skull?" Well, I guess we've both been dead; I can play the part.

"Relax, you're doing fine," Sherlock says.

"Well?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, what?" I ask, wondering what he's going to want _now._

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly…"

"What, you want me to come with you?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so..." Sherlock begins to trail off, and I smirk at him.

"Problem?" he asks.

"No," I say.

* * *

"Where are we going?" I ask. I still don't like it when people take me to unknown locations.

Northumberland Street's a five-minute walk from here.

"You think he's stupid enough to go there?" I raise my eyebrows. Why would someone go to the place their victim they supposedly murdered was at?

"No, I think he's _brilliant _enough," Sherlock says.

He's kidding me, right? _Brilliant _enough to meet up with his victim? If murderers were _that _stupid, I would have gotten a hold of the Joker and done to him what he did to me a long time ago.

"I love the brilliant ones," Sherlock continues. "They're always so desperate to get caught."

He sounds devious as he speaks.

"Why?" I ask. Most killers don't want to be caught, but then again, the Joker always made sure that Batman always knew it was him that was causing trouble, but it was never in his plans to get _caught._

"Appreciation! Applause! At long last the spotlight," Sherlock exclaims. "That's the frailty of genius, John: it needs an audience"

"Yeah, sure," I say. I prefer to lurk in the shadows, but that's just me, and Batman, and Nightwing, and Batgirl, it's a long list.

Sherlock spins around and gestures at the area we are walking. "This is his hunting ground, right here in the heart of the city. Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but nobody saw them go."

He puts his hands up near his head the way a telepath would. "Think! Who do we trust, even though we don't know them? Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

"No one," I say.

He looks at me, annoyed.

"What, do you know of someone like that?" I ask.

"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock says. "Hungry?"

"No."

He ignores me and leads me into a restaurant anyway. The waiter clearly knows him, and guides us over to a table.

"Thank you, Billy," Sherlock says. First name basis, yeah, they know each other.

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street," Sherlock says. "Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just going to ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad," I say. _It's something the Joker would do; I know that._

"He _has_ killed four people," Sherlock points out.

"True," I murmur. He has a point. Lots of killers are at least somewhat mad, I mean, look at Arkham. It's filled with murderous loonies.

The manager of the restaurant comes up to us, looking quite pleased to see Sherlock. "Sherlock," he says, happily.

If anyone looked that pleased to see me, I'd wonder what I was doing wrong.

Sherlock shakes his hand.

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free," he says, laying a couple of menus on the table. "On the house, for you _and_ for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asks me.

I ignore him and glare at the manager. "I'm _not _his _date!"_

"This is Angelo," Sherlock says.

"This man got me off a murder charge," Angelo says, still smiling.

I don't take my eyes off him; I don't trust the guy.

Angelo extends his hand to shake mine, which I eventually take tentatively. I still don't trust him.

"Three years ago," Sherlock says, "I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name," Angelo says to me.

"I cleared it a _bit" _Sherlock corrects. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," he says, "but for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You _did _go to prison," Sherlock points out.

"I'll get a candle for the table," Angelo says, "It's more _romantic."_

"_I'm not his date!" _I shout after him. I'm _way _too into girls for _that _to _ever _be a reality.

"You may as well eat," Sherlock says. "We might have a long wait."

"No," I say.

"Suit yourself," Sherlock says, and then mutters something about me being stubborn.

Oh, yeah, like _you're _one to talk.

We sit at the table in silence, and then Sherlock grabs my shoulder. I almost jump at the sudden contact, not expecting or wanting it.

"Look across the street," he says. "Taxi."

I look, and sure enough there is a taxi there, parked with its back end towards the restaurant.

"Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?" Sherlock says to himself.

"Wait, _that's _him?" I ask. Our murderer is in the taxi? Wow.

"don't stare," Sherlock says.

"Why not? _You're _staring," I say stubbornly.

"We can't _both _stare," he insists.

It was the opposite with B; we'd both have to watch while on stakeout. We had to have our heads completely in the game, or we could lose our lives, not that it helped me that much at the end of the day.

Sherlock springs to his feet, grabbing his coat and scarf and head towards the door. I grab my black leather jacket and follow him out the door.

The cab is beginning to drive away as we run out into the street, and nearly get hit by a car.

Sherlock doesn't stop, rolling over the hood, and continuing to run.

I don't stop either, but I vault over the hood with some of the acrobatics I'd learned as Robin. You never really forget something you learned, no matter what happens; I'll always still have my time as Robin. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing though.

"I've got the cab number," I tell Sherlock. On the streets, fast memorization was a handy talent to have.

"Good for you," Sherlock says, and then begins muttering to himself. "Right turn, one way, road works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights."

Sherlock races up to a man, grabs him and shoves him out of the way before charging into the building like a maniac. I just run after him.

We race up the stairs and out onto a spiral fire escape that leads onto the roof. Considering my training and the fact that I am six feet tall, I keep up with Sherlock easily.

When we reach the top of the stares, Sherlock runs over to the edge and looks before running down a shorter staircase to another floor lower. He jumps over the gap to the next building.

I follow him down the stairs, leaping to the next building like I used to do with B and now I do alone most of the time and wearing a red helmet and a domino mask.

We exit onto D'Arblay Street just as the taxi turns onto it. Sherlock races past the corner and down to the end of the alley, but the taxi has driven past it, heading left.

"No!" he cries in frustration. He turns right, "This way."

I follow him like I used to follow B.

We maneuver down more alleyways, until we get to Wardour Street and intercept the taxi. Sherlock runs out and throws himself into the path of the taxi, which halts with a screech as he hits the hood.

Sherlock hurriedly pulls out an ID badge and shows it to the driver. "Police! Open her up."

Sherlock stares at the passenger as I move to stand beside him. "No," he says, gazing at the worried passenger. "Teeth, tan. What-Californian?"

The man in the backseat nods, looking quite scared. I've never been scared of the police; I've run from them, but that's just because I didn't want to get caught with all the illegal things I was doing in my youth.

"L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived," Sherlock says in annoyance.

"How the hell do you know _that?" _I ask.

"The luggage," he says in exasperation. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

The timid passenger nods. What a wimp. "Sorry, are you guys the police?"

"Yes," Sherlock flashes the badge at him. "Everything all right?"

He smiles nervously. "Yeah."

"Welcome to London," Sherlock says with a false smile.

He begins to walk away. I glare at the passenger for a moment, until he cowers away, and then I follow. "So, it was just a cab that happened to slow down?"

"Basically," Sherlock says, annoyed.

I decide to change the subject. "So, where'd you get the badge?"

He hands it to me. "Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Yeah, I pickpocket him whenever he's annoying," Sherlock explains. "You can keep that one; I have plenty."

Well there's one thing we have in common: pick pocketing. I used to do that before I learned how to boost people's tires.

We turn back to see the passenger talking to a policeman. _Oh, shit._

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asks.

I grin. "Never lost it."

Thank you training.

I take off after Sherlock as we both begin to run away.

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you think? Good? Bad? I really do enjoy writing this, and I would _love _some feedback. Your opinions matter, and constructive criticism is very appreciated. I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I'll get to work on the next one.**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

When we get back to the flat, Mrs. Hudson is waiting for us.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asks, sounding quite upset.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asks.

"Upstairs," she says.

I follow Sherlock up the steps. He opens the door to the living room, where police officers are rummaging through his possessions. Sherlock storms right up to Lestrade. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," Lestrade says casually, "I'm not that stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock says accusingly.

"And you can't withhold evidence," Lestrade ripostes. "And I didn't _break_ into your flat."

"What do you call this then?" Sherlock exclaims angrily.

I look around at all the people. I've never really liked being around a lot of people all moving about and making noise… it makes me kind of want to slip out of the flat and find a nice alleyway or abandoned warehouse that doesn't have a psychopath in it, and hide there for a while, but I don't move from where I am standing off to the side, arms crossed over my chest as I glare at anyone who looks at me.

"A drug bust," Lestrade says.

"Are you kidding me?" I ask. "_This guy, _a junkie? Have you met him? He doesn't exactly fight the stereotype for that."

"John, you probably want to shut up now," Sherlock says.

"Wait, you're serious? You were a junkie?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock exclaims, turning back Lestrade. "I'm _not _your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade says.

"What?" Sherlock says, as we turn and see Anderson in the doorway to the kitchen, looking smug. It really gives me a strong desire to shoot him.

"What are you doing on a drugs bust?" Sherlock questions Anderson.

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson says complacently.

I instinctively reach for my gun, but stop myself just as my fingers touch the hidden holster.

"They _all_ did," Lestrade says. "They're not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"Are these _human _eyes?" that Donovan woman appears holding a plastic bag of what definitely looks like human eyes. "They were in the microwave."

"Don't touch that!" Sherlock exclaims. "It's part of an experiment."

Of what? What could he possibly be experimenting on? Please tell me it's not like some of those creepy villains' experiments where they try to genetically enhance people.

"Keep looking guys," Lestrade calls to his squad. "Or," he turns to Sherlock, "we could work together and I'll tell them to stand down."

"This is childish," Sherlock snaps.

"Well, I'm _dealing_ with a child," Lestrade retorts. "Sherlock, this is _our_ case. I'm letting you in, but you do _not_ go off on your own. Clear?"

"Oh, what, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock accuses.

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade points out.

"I am clean!" Sherlock exclaims loudly.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade questions. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke," Sherlock says, pulling down his sleeve to reveal his nicotine patch.

"Neither do I." Lestrade pulls down his own sleeve to reveal a nicotine patch there as well. "So let's work together on this. We found Rachel."

Sherlock turns back to him, excited. "Who is she?"

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade replies.

There's something about the look on his face that tells me the lead was a dead end. Bats are always able to read tells, making it easy for us to communicate with one another when out on the rooftops; a simple look, and we know what we're supposed to do. Dick calls it: speaking Bat.

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?" Sherlock says, going into his weird detective mode, trying to find a reason.

"Never mind _that_," Anderson says, pointing at the pink case in the living room. "We found the case. According to _someone_, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock glares at Anderson. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research."

"You need to bring Rachel in," he says to Lestrade. "You need to question her. _I_ need to question her."

"She's dead." Knew the lead was a dead end.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaims. Huh, apparently it's _not _a dead end to Sherlock.

"How, when and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be."

"Well," Lestrade starts, "I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

Sherlock looks confused. "No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? _Why?"_

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson asks, his voice giving me a headache. "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

Sherlock gives the moron an irate look, before beginning to pace. "She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort; it would have hurt."

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it," I remind him. "Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock stops and looks at me. "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago. Why would she still be upset?"

I freeze for a moment, and I can't help but wonder if Bruce has gotten over my death. It was six years ago. Not fourteen years, but still quite a while. I wonder if he cares anymore, or if he ever did.

"Not good?" Sherlock asks me as everyone falls silent and begins to stare at him.

I'm not much for sentiments, but after spending time with Dick and Alfred, I know the answer. "A bit, yeah."

Sherlock shrugs it off and takes a step forward, beginning to whisper to me intently. "Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

Images begin to flash through my mind.

'_Which hurts worse? A or B?'_

'_Nah, I'm just gonna keep hitting you with this crowbar.'_

'_Tell the Big Man I said "Hello."'_

_I remember crawling across the floor after falling down when I tried to stand up, finding the door locked. There was no way out. And then I saw the bomb… only a few seconds left._

_I closed my eyes, and it went off._

"Let it be quick," I murmur.

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock exclaims in exasperation.

"I don't have to," I snarl at him, a lot of my natural rage showing through.

Sherlock blinks at me, and I realize that under all the anger, I let a flash of pain dart across my face, and Sherlock, being the creepy detective he is, noticed it.

He pauses, staring at me almost apologetically, and then continues. "But if you were clever. _Really clever. _Jennifer Wilson, she was clever, running all those lovers. She was clever," he starts to pace again. "She's trying to tell us something."

Mrs. Hudson comes through the door. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi; go away," Sherlock says, rudely.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson says, "They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," I explain. I'm glad the police never had one of those at my mother's apartment. They'd have taken her away from me, not that death didn't do that eventually anyway.

Mrs. Hudson looks worried. "But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers."

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" Sherlock shouts, irritated intensely. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My _face_ is?!" Anderson exclaims. I almost want to laugh.

"Everybody quiet and still," Lestrade commands. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson shouts, outraged.

"Your _back_, now!"

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock mutters to himself.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he shouts furiously.

She turns away and flees down the stairs, and that's when Sherlock has his realization.

"Oh." A delighted smile comes across his face. "She was clever, clever, yes! She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see? Do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone; she never lost it. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Lestrade asks.

"What? What do you mean, how?" Sherlock asks in shock. "Rachel!"

He looks so triumphant, but everyone just looks at him blankly. Is it wrong that I kind of want to laugh right now?

"Don't you see?" he tries again. "Rachel! Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be _so_ relaxing. Rachel is not a name."

I don't really find my life relaxing, but okay. "Then what is it?"

"John, on the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address." Sherlock instructs.

I go over to the annoyingly pink case and read the email address to him. "Uh, .uk."

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled," he pulls up the website, "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address... and all together now, the password is?"

"Rachel," I murmur.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson says obnoxiously.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her," Sherlock says.

The look on Anderson's face makes me have to fight as hard as I possibly can to hold back the laughter and maintain my hostile, stoic look. I don't laugh in front of people I don't trust… I realize with a jolt that I laughed in front of Sherlock earlier. Was that creepy guy with the umbrella right? _Do _I trust him?

"Unless he got rid of it," Lestrade says.

"We know he didn't," I say, remembering texting the creep.

"Come on, come on. Quickly!" Sherlock says, impatient with the computer.

Mrs. Hudson is back. "Sherlock, dear. This taxi driver-"  
He stalks towards her. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?"

I continue to watch the clock on the computer spin to tell us when it'll have finished loading, while listening to Sherlock and Lestrade's conversation.

"We need to get vehicles," Sherlock says, "get a helicopter. We're gonna have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade says.

"It's a start!" Sherlock shouts.

The map appears and zooms in on the phone's location. "Sherlock-"

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock insists, talking to Lestrade. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock-" I try again.

Sherlock hurries towards me, coming in a little too close for my liking to look over my shoulder. "What is it? Quickly, where?"

The map shows us the location.

"It's here," I murmur.

Sherlock straightens up. "How can it be here? _How_?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade tries to come up with an explanation for the results.

"What, and I didn't notice it?" Sherlock asks, exasperated once again. "_Me_? I didn't notice?"

"Anyway," I say to Lestrade, "we texted him and he called back."

Lestrade turns towards his squad of officers. "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile somewhere here, it belonged to the victim..."

Sherlock all of a sudden gets a really strange look on his face. It is the same look Bruce always used to get whenever he had finally figured out a case, except a little less stoic.

He looks down at his phone for a moment.

"Uh, Sherlock, are you okay?" I ask, noticing the look on his face getting stranger and stranger by the moment. It almost… _worries _me. I haven't had anyone to worry about since I died; I'm not used to the feeling.

"What?" he asks. "Yeah, I- I'm fine."

"Okay," I say, not believing him. "Do you want me to try it again?" I gesture to the GPS tracker on the computer.

"Yes, good idea," he says.

Sherlock begins to head towards the door.

"Where are you going?" I ask. It's not a good idea to let someone walk off on their own when they're… not quite stable. That's what got me killed. I should have stayed with Batman rather than go after the Joker on my own.

"Fresh air," Sherlock says. "Just going out for a minute. I won't be long."

I frown, because I didn't think I'd be long either, but two hours later, I was dead. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Sherlock begins to hurry down the stairs. "I'm fine."

I stare after him for a moment, hoping he is just being dramatic because the tracking device failed.

* * *

I hear a cab pull away from the flat. "Sherlock just got in a cab," I say.

"I told you," Donovan says, "He does that. We're wasting our time here."

"I'm calling the phone," I say to Lestrade. "It's ringing out."

"If it's ringing, it isn't here," Lestrade says.

"I can try again." I honestly have no idea why I am being so cooperative. Normally, I'd have lashed out at this point. Not saying part of me doesn't want to, but I'm still managing to suppress it, which is a huge accomplishment.

"Does it matter?" Donovan confronts Lestrade. "Does _any_ of it? You know, he is just a lunatic, and he will _always_ let you down, and you're wasting your time. _All_ our time."

I don't believe her. I don't know why, but I don't, though at the same time, I can relate to how she is feeling, because I have been let down too. Batman, no, _Bruce, _my father, let me down. He failed to save me and then didn't even avenge my murder. The not getting there in time, I can forgive him for that, but letting that clown continue to _live? That, _I will _never _forgive.

Lestrade stares at her for a moment, and then finally, he sighs. "All right, fine. Come on everyone; we're done here."

After the police officers leave, Lestrade grabs his coat.

He turns towards me. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?"

"You know him better than I do," I say with a shrug, crossing my arms back over my chest.

"I've known him for five years," Lestrade says with a sigh," and no, I don't."

"Why do you put up with him then?" I ask, raising one of my dark eyebrows. I wonder if it is the same reason Gordon works with Batman.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade says.

So, not the same then. Gordon works with B, because he can get the job done when the police can't, but to me, that sounds like the same thing going on here, even though Lestrade won't admit it, maybe not even to himself.

"And," Lestrade continues, "because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very _lucky_, he might even be a _good_ one."

He turns and walks out the door, leaving me to stare after him, arms still crossed, the words he said still running through my mind.

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you think? I really would appreciate some feedback. The updates might be a little slower during the week, since I have school and I am trying to write novels too, but they will definitely continue. I'd love to know what you think of this; don't be shy, I'd love any feedback I can get on this story.**

**Thanks again for reading, you are all awesome,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or Batman.**_

Jason's POV

* * *

After Lestrade leaves, I let out a long sigh. What the hell am I even doing here? I should be in one of my safe houses, plotting my revenge on the Joker, not here, completely out of my comfort zone.

I get up, grab my leather jacket, and begin to stalk out of the room, planning to go to one of the many warehouses I turned into safe houses. Maybe I'll even leave London.

Before I can leave, I hear the computer beep. I turn back around, and see the map zoom in on the location. It continues to beep repeatedly. Damn, the thing is moving.

I dart out of the room. One thing B always taught me was to trust my instinct, and my instincts are telling me that Sherlock is in trouble.

I get onto my motorcycle immediately, and then think it would _probably _be a good idea to call the police. B always worked with them, and even if this isn't something I'd normally do, if it saves Sherlock, then I'm just going to have to do it.

God, help me.

I call the police department, but for some reason, they have to take their sweet time contacting Lestrade. Really? You don't think that when someone calls the police it's important?

Eventually, I get to the address the phone has stopped at. Roland-Kerr College.

I spring off my motorcycle, which for some reason reminds me of back when I rode the R-cycle, going down to crimes whenever I wasn't in the Batmobile with B…

I really need to stop thinking about Bruce.

I dash towards the buildings, not seeing any weirdoes holding Sherlock hostage with a pink phone outside.

I go through each corridor of the building, using stealth, but at the same time, going as fast as possible and breaking down the doors if I have to.

Finally, I come to a window, where I see Sherlock and some weird guy with white hair standing in a room. Sherlock is holding a pill above him, gazing at it intensely, while the other guy holds the other pill, and speaks to him.

'_I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you... so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it? Still the addict,_' I read his lips.

'_But this ... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything... anything at all… to stop being bored.'_

Sherlock and the man begin to move their hands with the pills to their lips. I immediately draw my gun.

'_You're not bored now, are you? Innit good?'_

_No it's not. _I shoot him.

The shoot rings out and hits him right in his carotid artery. After dying I had so much more training; there's not way I would have missed.

After seeing that Sherlock is safe, I get the hell out of there. I usually don't shoot people out of mask and helmet, and I really don't need anyone, not even Sherlock, seeing my face.

* * *

Sherlock's POV

* * *

I sit on the edge of the ambulance as morons keep putting a stupid blanket on me and I knock it off.

Lestrade walks over, and I gesture to the blanket. "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," he _attempts _to explain.

"I'm not _in_ shock," I retort in annoyance.

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs," Lestrade says, grinning.

I roll my eyes with aggravation.

"So, the shooter," I begin, "No sign?"

"He Cleared off before we got here," Lestrade says, "but a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but..." he

shrugs, "We've got nothing to go on.

I look at him pointedly. "Oh, I wouldn't say that."

Now Lestrade rolls his eyes. I ignore him.

"Okay, gimme," he says.

I stand up. "The bullet they just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon– that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; that's someone who's had training, most likely from a bad area. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. You're looking for a man probably with an abusive history..." as I speak, my eyes find John standing over by the police tape, his arms crossed over his chest, looking stoic, distrusting, and hostile as ever. "…And nerves of steel…" I trail off, realizing the connection.

_John _is the one who shot the cab driver, to save me. For some reason, I instantly feel… _good. _As if I like it that someone cares. But that's absurd, isn't it? I'm Sherlock Holmes; I don't have friends.

Okay, even an idiot could deduce that that is lie now that I've met John. It'll take quite a bit to get the young man to open up, but I am certain my deductions will help make it so he can't hide anything from me.

"Actually," I say to Lestrade, "do you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade looks shocked.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, uh, the shock talking," I say hastily, beginning to walks towards John.

"Where're you going?" Lestrade asks me.

"I just need to talk about the-the rent," I fib quickly.

"But I've still got questions for you," Lestrade complains.

"Oh, what _now_? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" I wave the sides of the blanket in irritation.

"Sherlock!"

"And I just caught you a serial killer ... more or less," I say.

Lestrade looks at me for a moment, considering. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

I walk away from Lestrade and towards John, taking the blanket from my shoulders, bundling it up, and tossing it into an open car window.

* * *

Jason's POV

* * *

Sherlock approaches me.

"Uh, Donovan explained everything," I murmur. "Two pills, one good one bad…" I start to trail off.

"Good shot," Sherlock says, quietly whispering in my ear.

"Yeah, must have been through that window," I say, trying to play dumb, even though I know it won't work, not on Sherlock, just like it wouldn't work on B.

"Well, _you'd _know," Sherlock says.

I gaze forward at him, eliminating all tells on my face and in my body language, but it is too late.

"Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case," Sherlock says.

I stare at him, letting my eyes dart to the sides a bit to make sure no one noticed what he said. I really don't feel like going to jail right now, especially since jails take mug shots and fingerprints and crap, and those are things I cannot forge. My ID and fingerprints still come up as Jason Todd, a dead fourteen-year-old from Gotham, died in a bombing in Sarajevo.

Bruce did a good job covering up my death.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock sounds almost _concerned._

"I'm fine," I mutter.

"Well, you have just killed a man," he points out.

"Yeah, I did," I say.

Sherlock looks at me closely, watching me carefully.

"But he murdered four people and was about to kill you too," I say. "Bloody awful taxi driver. You can't trust them."

Sherlock smiles, apparently reassured that I am fine, even though I haven't been fine since that bomb went off.

"You still have trust issues," he says. "But you are right, he _was_ a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!"

I chuckle at that, remembering some of the crazy drives B and I had in the Batmobile, and Sherlock smiles, letting a few chuckles escape too.

"We probably shouldn't laugh at a crime scene," I point out. "People could get suspicious."

"Hey, you're the one who shot him," Sherlock says. "Don't blame me."

"_Keep you voice down,"_ I hiss as we walk past Donovan.

"Sorry," Sherlock says, as I glare at Donovan.

"You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?" I ask, knowing the answer. He was.

"Of course I wasn't," Sherlock says. "I was bidding my time. I knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't," I say. "It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever." Like how B, Dick, and I risk our lives to solve crime, and in the end, I paid mine fighting it.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asks.

"Because you're an idiot," I say. _Kind of like how I was an idiot, running after the Joker without Batman._

He smiles at me, as if he has finally found someone who understands him, and perhaps I do in a way.

"Dinner?" Sherlock asks.

I shrug, more comfortable around him. "Sure."

"At the end of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open until two," Sherlock says. "You can always tell a good Chinese place by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

I quirk my eyebrow at him, as if to say: _…okay. _And then I notice a little ways away from us, the creep with the umbrella who I talked to earlier.

"Uh, Sherlock, that's the guy who claimed to be your arch-enemy," I point him out to him.

Sherlock looks at the man. "I know exactly who that is." He begins to walk towards him. I follow, a little hesitant, but I remember I have my gun. I always feel safer with my gun. I even sleep with it, which actually isn't too smart, since a couple times when I have had nightmares about the Joker, it has gone off.

"So, another case cracked. How very public spirited. Though that is never really your motivation, is it?" the man asks, pleasantly smiling at Sherlock.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asks hostilely.

"As always, I'm concerned about you," he replies.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'," Sherlock drawls.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" the creep asks.

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock snaps at him.

"We have more in common than you like to believe," the man insists. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy."

_Wait, Mummy?_

"_I_ upset her?" Sherlock looks accusingly at the other man, who glares at him. "It wasn't _me_ that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait. _Mummy?_ Who the hell is _Mummy?"_ I ask, hoping I have misinterpreted the situation.

"Mother– our mother," Sherlock says. "This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft says smugly.

"He's your _brother_?!" Wow, we _both _have family issues.

"So he's not…"

"Not what?" Sherlock asks.

They both stare at me as I continue to glare hostilely.

"A criminal mastermind?" _Who belongs in Arkham on the same level as at least Two-Face._

"Close enough," Sherlock says.

"For God's sake!" Mycroft exclaims. "I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He _is_ the British government," Sherlock says, "when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

Sherlock begins to walk away, and Mycroft stares after him.

"So, when-when you say you're concerned about him, you actually _are_ concerned?" I ask in disbelief.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft says. "He's always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yeah…" I say, thinking of what would happen if we Bats ever had actually decided to celebrate Christmas, rather than go out on patrol and most likely almost die, and have dinner at the manor. Bruce, Selina, Alfred, Dick, Babs, me… yeah it would end in chaos. "Well, I'd better run."

I catch up to Sherlock, since I have long legs.

"So, dinner?" he asks. "I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't," I say.

"Almost always though," he says. "Just like how I guessed that your traumatic experience was a near death experience."

I stiffen, remembering the sound of the bomb going off, extreme pain, and then everything going cold… "…Yeah," I say slowly, a little nervous to be on this topic but trying to hide it.

"Knew it!" Sherlock exclaims in triumph.

"It was a lucky guess," I mutter.

"I never guess," Sherlock insists.

"Yes you do," I say.

He all of a sudden smiles, which I find a little creepy. "What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," he says, the grin still on his face.

"Who the hell's that?" I ask.

"No idea," Sherlock replies.

"Then why the hell are we talking about him?" I ask.

Sherlock smirks at me.

* * *

Mycroft's POV

* * *

"Sir, shall we go?" my assistant asks me, looking down at her phone.

"Interesting, that hostile, American fellow," I comment, watching as my brother and his first friend depart the scene of the crime. "He could be the making of my brother. Or make him worse than ever; either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

My assistant looks up from her phone. "Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson."

* * *

**AN: Well, that is the end of A Study In Pink. I'll take requests for whatever cases you want to see most, or if you want to just see a bit of brotherly fluff once in a while :) I plan to mostly follow seasons one and two accurately, but I haven't seen season three, and from what I have heard, it doesn't sound like it will fit with my story. I also follow Batman: Under the Red Hood the movie as to where I get my information from how Jason died, but I will probably incorporate comic book stuff too.**

**Again, I'd really like some feedback on this.**

**Thanks again for reading, you guys rock!**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :D**


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock.**_

Jason's POV

* * *

I officially hate self-check out machines.

The stupid thing wouldn't work when I put my card in, flipping out on me, saying it wasn't authorized.

It took a lot not to shoot it full of bullets, or at least stab a batarang or two in it.

I get back, even angrier than when I left.

"You certainly took your time," Sherlock says, reading a book on the couch.

"Yeah, I didn't get the shopping," I mutter grumpily, still angry from my war with the machine.

"What? Why?" Sherlock looks concerned.

I give him a low-grade Bat-glare. "Because the machines here are terrible," I snap.

"What, did you have an argument with it or something?" he asks.

"Sort of," I say. "It sat there, and I resisted destroying it."

"You really have nasty anger issues," he smirks, as if he finds this situation annoying. Now I have to resist attacking him.

"Shut up," I growl, remembering that sometimes breathing deeper can help get rid of anger.

"Here, take my card," he hands it to me.

"…Thanks," I say slowly, a little distrusting of the gesture. "What have you been doing all this time?"

He just shrugs, going back to his book.

I notice a slash mark on the table. I run my finger over it. That definitely came from a sword. I know how to use swords from my training, but I definitely prefer my guns. You don't bring a knife to a gunfight; I learned that the hard way.

_What the hell was Sherlock doing with a sword? Never mind, I don't want to know. He can keep his secrets, just like I will keep mine._

"What happened about that case you were offered?" I ask. "The Jaria Diamond?"

"Not interested," Sherlock says, closing his book and shoving a sword out of sight. I pretend not to notice. Like I said, he can keep his secrets.

"I sent them a message," he continues.

I roll my eyes, guessing that the sword has something to do with it. Let's just hope he didn't go my route and kill anyone. After all, he's not a vigilante, anti-hero, ex-sidekick.

* * *

I get back with the groceries later to find Sherlock typing.

"Is that my laptop?" I ask him, after unloading the things I bought.

"Yes," he says. "It's very hard to crack your password," he murmurs, "I will get it eventually though."

_No you won't; it's my death date._

"Here," I say in exasperation, taking the laptop from him and typing in my death date. _10/12/09._

"What could those numbers possibly mean to you?" Sherlock wonders. "Is it your birth date?"

"No," I say.

"Is it-"

"Just shut up, and don't go through any of the files," I snap.

"No time for that!" Sherlock says. "I need to go to the bank!"

_What? Where did _that _come from?_

* * *

When we get to the bank, we are shown to an office that belongs to a man named Sebastian Wilkes.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sebastian says, sounding delighted to see him.

"Sebastian." Sherlock shakes his hand, and Sebastian clasps Sherlock's one hand in both of his own.

I already don't like this guy. He's too into contact.

"Howdy, buddy," Sebastian, says. "How long has it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock looks at him with a false smile, and then the man looks at me. I glare at him, my blue eyes narrowing and my arms crossing over my chest, touching my black leather jacket.

"This is my _friend_, John Watson," Sherlock says.

"Friend?" Sebastian looks surprised. I just look like I want to punch him.

"Colleague," I growl out.

"Right," Sebastian says, extending a hand to me, which I reluctantly take.

He continues to look at me peculiarly, since Sherlock apparently has never had any friends before. "Right."

"Well, grab a pew. Do you need anything? Coffee or water?" he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head as he sits down.

"No," I growl out, remaining standing.

Sherlock smirks at me, his look clearly saying: hostile as ever.

"No?" he asks. "All right then."

"So, you're doing well," Sherlock says. "You've been abroad a lot."

"Well, a bit," Sebastian grins.

"Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?" Sherlock continues.

I stare at him, realizing he's doing his detective thing again.

"Right," Sebastian grins. "You're doing that thing. We were at uni together," he says to me. "This guy here had a trick he used to do."

"It's not a trick."

"He could look at you and tell you your whole life story," he says.

"I know," I snap.

"Put the wind up everybody," Sebastian continues, obviously not noticing my hostility. "We hated him."

Sherlock looks away.

"Yeah, well, that's your opinion," I say. "I happen to get along with Sherlock just fine."

"You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night," Sebastian continues, ignoring my previous statement.

I really want to shoot this guy. Okay, I want to shoot a lot of people. Does it matter? I have anger issues!

"I simply observed," Sherlock mutters quietly.

"Go on," Sebastian insists. "Enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world– you're quite right. How could you tell?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to explain, but Sebastian continues talking. "You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

I continue glaring.

"No, I..."

He talks over Sherlock. "Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!"

Sherlock stares at him. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. _She_ told me."

I fight to control the laughter at the look on Sebastian's face. He chuckles nervously.

"Yes, well, I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in."

He leads us out the door and to another room.

"Sir William's office– the bank's former Chairman," he says. "The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night."

"What did they steal?" I ask.

"Nothing," he says. "Just left a little message."

He takes us into the room and shows us what looks like graffiti tag with yellow paint. I used to see lots of people tagging in Gotham, but never before did I see it in symbols like these. They're mandarin, but why the hell would someone write the numbers fifteen and one? It is sprayed over a painting, across the eyes of a portrait and what looks like a number eight but with the top of the number left open.

I would tell Sherlock that I know what the symbols mean, but I don't want him to ask where I learned mandarin. I don't want him to deduce anything more about my past; it's not something I like talking about.

Sherlock stares at the painting for a while, and then Sebastian shows us the security footage.

"Sixty seconds apart," he says.

"So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute," Sherlock says. "How many ways into that office?"

"Well, that's where this gets really interesting," Sebastian says.

Sebastian shows us more footage. "Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet."

"That door didn't open last night," Sherlock says.

"There's a hole in our security," Sebastian continues. "Find it and we'll pay you– five figures." He pulls out a check. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way."

"I don't _need_ an incentive, Sebastian," Sherlock says, before walking away.

I just glare at the guy some more, until he looks away, and then I follow Sherlock. Why do people always think they can buy everything?

* * *

After Sherlock takes pictures of the graffiti with mobile phone, he starts to head back to the escalators. I follow him. It honestly kind of reminds me of how I used to follow B around all the time, back before…

"Two trips around the world this month," I say, trying to take my mind off B and being Robin and the Joker. "You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock smiles slyly at me.

"So how'd you really know?" I ask.

"Did you see his watch?" Sherlock asks.

"His watch?" I ask. I don't really look at watches anymore. Used to back when I was a pickpocket, but then I started boosting tires.

"The time was right but the date was wrong. It said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it," Sherlock says.

"Within a month?" I press. "How'd you get that part?"

"New Breitling," Sherlock replies. "Only came out this February."

"Okay. So do you think we should look around here any longer?"

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks," Sherlock replies.

"You do?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors.

We find the intended recipient and…" he trails off, wanting me to finish the sentence.

"They will lead us to the person who sent it," I murmur, catching on.

"Obvious," Sherlock says, complacently.

"Well, there is three hundred people up there," I point out. "Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars."

"What?" it was meant for _pillars? _Have I missed something?

"Pillars and the screens," Sherlock explains "Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And of course the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot."

"It does?" I ask just before exit the revolving doors. Sure, I know that was rare graffiti; I know all about graffiti, but how does the time help us? Anyone with that graffiti could have done that at that time. Not necessarily in the amount of time it was done, but that's not what Sherlock said.

"Traders come to work at all hours," Sherlock explains. "Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."

"Taxi!" Sherlock shouts.

_What? No, we can't take a taxi! What about that crazy cab driver?_

* * *

Sherlock gets in the taxi.

When we get to our destination, Van Coon's flat, Sherlock presses the buzzer. There is no answer.

"So what do we do now?" I ask impatiently. "Sit here and wait for him to come back?"

Sherlock looks at all the tags, until he finds a new one. "Just moved in."

"Hello?" a woman's voice answers.

Sherlock smiles into the camera. "Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I don't think we've met."

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in," she answers.

Sherlock gives me an: 'I told you so' look. I flash the Bat-glare at him, and he looks away.

"Actually," Sherlock continues with a grimace, biting his lip. "I've just locked my keys in my flat."

"Do you want me to buzz you in?" the woman asks.

"Yeah," Sherlock says. "And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" she sounds shocked.

Sherlock, if you wanted to climb from one balcony to another, we could have just used my grappling hooks.

* * *

**AN: So, what do you think? I still haven't got any feedback yet, and I would really love some. You guys are awesome for taking the time to read my writing. Every time I get a single view, it makes my day! :)**

**Thanks again for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :D**


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

Turns out, Eddie Van Coon is dead.

Sherlock found out by climbing from one balcony to another. Of course, he didn't let me in the room, and if I grappled up, he would have asked where I got the grappling hook. Next time, though, I am breaking the door down if I have to.

"Do you think he'd lost a _lot_ of money? I mean; suicide is pretty common among City boys," I point out. Some of the gunshots I used to hear at night weren't murders, though quite a few of them were, they were suicides.

"We don't know that it _was_ suicide." Sherlock insists, squatting down by a suitcase by the bed and beginning to rummage through its contents.

"Come on. The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony," I say. The only way this was murder is if someone did what I usually do when I want to off them: sneak in through the window, using my grappling hook.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry," Sherlock says. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

I looks, and sure enough, he is right, as usual. It reminds me of how B always got everything right by thinking outside the box. He didn't go for the obvious, he went for whatever seemed the most impossible, because that's what the bad guys always did.

Sherlock walks towards the foot of the bed. "Those symbols at the bank. The graffiti. Why were they put there?"

"What, some sort of code?" I ask, wondering if it is anything like Morse code, something Batman taught me a long time ago.

"Obviously," Sherlock says, looking at Van Coon legs, and then opening his jacket to look inside the pockets. "Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Well, maybe he wasn't answering," I say sarcastically.

"Oh good. You follow," Sherlock says. "What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"

Maybe one saying: I am going to kill you? That usually sends people running.

"What about this morning?" Sherlock continues. "Those letters you were looking at?"

"Bills," I mutter.

Sherlock opens Van Coons mouth and pulls a black origami flower from inside it. "Yes. He was being threatened."

Another police officer walks into the room. I immediately glare at him, a bad habit of mine; glaring at figures of authority. Possibly because I did most of my growing up without one.

"Ah, Sergeant," Sherlock says. "We haven't met."

"Yeah, I know who you are," the Sergeant says. "And I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

Sherlock hands him the bag of evidence. I feel like handing the guy my fist, but I remember that I can't get arrested right now.

"I've phoned Lestrade," Sherlock says casually. "Is he on his way?"

"He's busy. _I'm_ in charge," the Sergeant says arrogantly. "And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

And we have to listen to you why, _Sergeant _Dim-muck? Jeez, how many rude idiots can I meet?

"We're obviously looking at a suicide," Dimmock continues in a know-it-all voice. I absent-mindedly begin to crack my knuckles.

"John please restrain yourself from hitting him," Sherlock says to me, as Dimmock looks at me warily, "As for you attempted deduction," he says to Dimmock, "Wrong. It's one _possible_ explanation of _some_ of the facts. You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?" Dimmock asks, still eyeing me cagily.

"The wound was on the _right_ side of his head," Sherlock says, as if it is obvious, which to him, probably everything is.

"And?" Dimmock asks, annoyed.

"Van Coon was left-handed," Sherlock says, pretending to try and put a gun to his right temple with his left hand. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?"

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice," Sherlock says sarcastically. "All you have to do is look around this flat." He points to the coffee table. "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left… Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think you've covered it," I say, happy that Sherlock is taking this moron down a few notches, at least in healthier way than I would. I take people down a few notches by cutting off their legs at their kneecaps.

"Oh, I might as well; I'm almost at the bottom of the list," Sherlock continues, pointing towards the kitchen while looking at Dimmock impatiently. "There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left. It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the _right_ side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. _Only_ explanation of _all_ the facts."

"But the gun," Dimmock says. "Why…"

"He was _waiting_ for the killer," Sherlock interrupts. "He'd been threatened." He walks away and picks up his gloves and scarf.

"What?" Dimmock asks, confused. He really is dim.

"Today at the bank," I explain to him. "Sort of a warning."

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in," Sherlock insists.

"And the bullet?" Dimmock asks.

"Went through the open window," Sherlock claims.

"Oh, come on! What are the chances of _that_?!" Dimmock complains, not believing it.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it," Sherlock says.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock looks confused.

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions," Sherlock says dramatically with a condescending tone.

I give Dimmock the Bat-glare as I walk out after him. The man cowers away from me. I hear him mutter to himself as I leave, "When did the freak get himself a guard dog?"

* * *

After that, Sherlock drags me to some restaurant where that Sebastian guy is having lunch with some of his colleagues. We walk up to the table.

"It was a threat," Sherlock says. "That's what the graffiti meant."

"I'm kind of in a meeting," Sebastian says, sounding annoyed. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?"

"I don't think this can wait," Sherlock says. "Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders, someone who worked in your office, was killed."

"What?" Sebastian looks up, startled.

"Van Coon," I say, stoically. "The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" he asks, shocked.

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion," Sherlock says, sarcastic and annoyed as usual. "Still want to make an appointment? Would, maybe, 9:00 in Scotland Yard suit you?

* * *

Later, we head into the public restroom to talk privately. Kind of an odd place to do that if you ask me, but hey; I usually do my meetings in warehouses and alleyways, so I can't really talk.

"Harrow, Oxford. He was a very bright guy," Sebastian says. "Worked in Asia for a while, so…"

"You gave him the Hong Kong accounts," I say, catching on.

Sebastian dries his hands on a towel. "Lost five mill in a single morning. It made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had."

"Who would want to kill him?" I ask.

"We all make enemies," Sebastian says.

I _know _that, but sometimes, it helps to know who they are, you have a better chance of not dying then, though sometimes even knowing who they can't help you, like in my case.

Sebastian's phone receives a text. "Excuse me." He looks at his phone. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently they're telling him it was a suicide."

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian," Sherlock says. "He was murdered."

"Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that," Sebastian says. "And neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job. Don't get sidetracked." He walks away, leaving the room.

"I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards," I mutter as we exit too.

* * *

After that, I go out for a while as Red Hood. It's been too long since I have been in costume. I don't feel comfortable going that long without a domino mask and a helmet on.

I prowl over the rooftops, not actually finding anything to stop, but getting a nice patrol in.

When I get back, I remove my costume in secret and then sneak back out so I can make it look like I _didn't _go through the window to get back to the flat.

When I get in, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, looking at the photographs he took. "I said, could you pass me a pen?"

"When?" I ask.

"About an hour ago," he replies.

I sigh, handing him a pen. "Didn't notice I'd gone out then."

"No, what were you doing?" he asks.

"Going for a walk," I lie. Technically it was a walk on the rooftops, or maybe more of a run, but that's all I did.

Sherlock looks at me suspiciously. "Here, have a look."

I walk over to see what he is talking about.

I walk over and look at the news article on the computer: "Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police".

There is also a picture of a bald man, and an article that says:An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in…

"An intruder who can walk through walls," I say. _What is he? A Martian? A ghost? Some kind of Meta with a phasing ability?_

"It happened last night," Sherlock says. " The journalist was shot dead in his flat. The doors were locked, the windows bolted from the inside– exactly the same as Van Coon."

I stand up straighter, gazing at Sherlock intently. "You think…"

"He's killed another one," Sherlock finishes for me.

We talk to Dimmock later.

"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat…" Sherlock shows him the article. "Doors locked from the inside."

"Even someone as dim as you has to admit it's similar," I say.

Dimmock scowls at me, but looks away when he sees my glare, and then turns to scowl at the computer instead.

"Both men killed by someone who can apparently walk through solid walls," I say. _Or break in through the window._

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock accuses. "You _have_ seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

Dimmock nods.

"And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?"

"No," Dimmock says grudgingly.

"No," Sherlock says. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel. I've just handed you a murder enquiry. Five minutes in his flat."

When we get to Lukis's flat, Sherlock immediately begins investigating. "Four floors up. _That's_ why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable. He walks into the middle of the room. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in."

He turns back and looks at the skylight.

"I don't understand," Dimmock says.

I do. I know exactly what Sherlock is thinking right now, because this is the way we Bats get into buildings.

Sherlock goes out onto the landing. "You're dealing with a killer who can climb." He hops up on a box to get a closer look at the skylight.

I can't help but remember the dozens of times I broke in through the skylights with B to fight the bad guys… back before I became what I am now: the Red Hood, and enraged, resurrected anti-hero. I honestly don't know how I feel about that right now.

"What are you doing?" Dimmock asks.

"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock says, pushing the window up. "That's how he got in."

"What?!" Dimmock exclaims.

I don't get what his problem is. Hasn't he heard of Metas and grappling hooks and other things like that? It's not too improbable.

"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight," Sherlock says.

Yep, just like what B, Dick, Babs, and I do, only we sometimes use our grappling hooks to help.

"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?" Dimmock exclaims.

Hey, there could be a Meta with spider-like abilities.

"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon," Sherlock says.

"Oh, hold on!" Dimmock laughs in disbelief.

"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace," Sherlock says, getting down onto the landing again. "We have to find out what connects these two men."

* * *

We go to the library later, and go to the shelves to find the place the books Lukis checked out came from. Sherlock picks up a library book. "Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died."

I pull some books off the shelf, wondering if there might be a connection, and then I see it. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turns around and looks at me, coming forward a moment later and reaches into the shelf and begins to pull out a ton of books until he reveal the spray painted on the back of the shelf. The same two symbols that were at the bank. One and fifteen.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. A few hours later, he dies," Sherlock says.

"The killer finds Lukis at the library," I say, "he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home."

"Late that night, he dies too," Sherlock finishes the sentence.

"But _why_ did they die, Sherlock?" I ask. Could whoever is doing this be doing it for the same reason the Joker does? For the sheer entertainment of it?

"Only the cipher can tell us."

After that, we leave. As we walk through the square, Sherlock continues to talk to me. "The world's run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment, but it's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

"Where are we headed?" I ask, a question I used to ask B whenever we got in the Batmobile. He would always explain things on the way, figuring it would save time, though sometimes he would explain at the Cave too.

"I need to ask some advice," he says.

"What?!" I say. He has to be joking. After all, he is so much like B when it comes to fighting crime, though there's no costume. No, I mean he's like B in the way that he _never _asks for help, even when he may need it.

Sherlock glares at me. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."

"_You_ need advice?"

"On painting, yes," Sherlock says. "I need to talk to an expert."

He begins to lead me into an alleyway, where a man who looks a little older than me is spray-painting the al. he sprays his tag: Raz below the image and then continues the "art"._  
_As we approach him, I wonder if I should be ready to draw my gun or not.

"Part of a new exhibition," he says.

"Interesting," Sherlock says, not sounding interested at all.

"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," he says with a chuckle.

"Catchy," I mutter. This guy doesn't know the _meaning_ of bloodlust.

He continues to spray. "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Officer comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm working?"

Sherlock shows him the images on his phone. "Know the author?"

"I recognize the paint," he says. "It is like Michigan. Hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."

"What about the symbols?" Sherlock asks. "Do you recognize them?"

"Not even sure it's a proper language," he says, staring at the images. _Yes it is! It's mandarin!_

"Two men have been murdered, Raz," Sherlock says. "Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them."

"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz asks. "It's hardly much, now, is it?" his name reminds me a little too much of 'Ra's'

"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock asks impatiently.

"I'll ask around," Raz says casually."

"Somebody _must_ know something about it," Sherlock says.

"Oi!" a voice calls.

We spin around and see two Community Support Officers running towards us. Sherlock grabs his phone from and Raz and runs off, while Raz drops his spray can and kicks his bag towards me before running off too.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the officers accuses. "This gallery is a listed public building."

Growling, I attack.

By the end of it, they wished they never met me. Now, I'd better get out of here before I go to jail. Like I said earlier, my prints still come up as Jason Todd, a dead fourteen-year-old from Gotham.

* * *

When I get back to the flat, Sherlock is standing by the fireplace. "You've been a while."

"Yeah, well, you left me to beat up a couple of Security guards," I growl.

"You beat up Security guards?" Sherlock stares at me.

"Yeah, the ones you left me with," I snap. That's one thing B never would have done. Maybe I was just an expendable soldier to him, considering he never avenged my death, but I know one thing: he never left me alone in battle.

Sherlock slams his book shut, dismissing what I just said as if it's casual news. "This symbol. I still can't place it. I need you to go to the police station."

"What? Why?" I ask. Police stations and me don't exactly mix.

"Ask about the journalist," Sherlock says.

"For the love of Batman," I mutter to myself, too quietly for Sherlock to hear.

Sherlock grabs his coat. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements."

We head downstairs and out onto the street.

"I'm going to go and see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide," Sherlock says, walking away.

I sigh, and get on my motorcycle. This isn't going to be fun.

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you guys think? Was it good? Bad? I'd love to get more feedback. I would like to thank Tales from within, and my two anonymous reviewers, Guest and Sakura, for being my first three reviewers! Thanks so much, guys; you made my day! :)**

**Well, thanks again for reading, please review!**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

I go down to the stupid police station in Scotland Yard to talk to Dimmock.

The moron is rummaging around Lukis's possessions.

"Your friend-" Dimmock starts.

"I don't want to hear it," I snap. "If you're going to insult Sherlock, I'm going to punch you in the throat.

"What are you? His _bodyguard?" _Dimmock snarls.

"Do you want to find out?" I give him the Bat-glare until he cowers and looks away.

"He's an arrogant sod," Dimmock says, handing me Lukis's diary.

I growl at him.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" the moron asks nervously. "The journalist's diary?" _what kind of man uses the word 'diary'?_

I take the journal, and after one final glare at Dimmock, I exit the building.

* * *

Some time later, I literally run into Sherlock while looking through the journal's pages.

Before I can say anything, Sherlock immediately begins speaking. "Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died – whatever was hidden inside that case. I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information…"

"Sherlock-"

"Credit card bills, receipts," he continues. "He flew back from China, then he came here."

"Sherlock…"

"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but…"

I point across the street. "That shop over there."

Sherlock looks at the shop, and then back at me. "How can you tell?"

"Lukis' journal," I say, showing him. "He was here too; he wrote down the address."  
Sherlock and I begin to head towards the shop.

When we get inside, the shop owner grins at me creepily. "You want lucky cat?" she holds up the merchandise.

_Damn, that thing is _creepy. "No," I say, hostility in my tone once again.

Sherlock smirks at me, as if he is enjoying this. I glare at him.

"Ten pound. Ten pound!" the shopkeeper tries.

"No," I growl.

"I think your wife, she will like!"

"I don't have a wife!" I scream.

She doesn't even look fazed.

I stalk away to join Sherlock at one of the tables where ceramic painted teacups without handles are sitting. They have the mandarin symbols on the too. Yes! I can tell Sherlock about it without revealing that I know mandarin.

"Sherlock," I call to him.

Sherlock puts down the clay statue he was holding and comes over.

"The label there," I point it out.

"Yes, I see it," he says.

"Exactly the same as the cipher," I say.

I put the teacup back and we leave.

"It's an ancient number system! Hangzhou." Sherlock says.

_I knew that._

"These days, only street traders use it," Sherlock continues. "Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library."

Well, considering I grew up on the streets, it seems rather fitting that I knew what they meant.

"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect."

"It's a fifteen," I say, pointing to one of the shop's price tags.

"And the blindfold– the horizontal line? That was a number as well," Sherlock says, finding a price tag with the number one on it. "The Chinese number one, John."

Sherlock begins to walk away, and I spot an **(1)**Asian woman taking a picture of us. I pause for a moment, a bad feeling growing inside me, and then I notice Sherlock is halfway up the block.

When I look back, the woman is gone, so I just hurry after Sherlock, but the thoughts of her don't leave me.

* * *

We hang outside the shop for a while. "Two men travel back from China. Both head straight for the Lucky Cat emporium. What did they see?"

"It's not what they saw," Sherlock says. "It's what they both brought back in those suitcases. Think about what Sebastian told us; about Van Coon – about how he stayed afloat in the market."

"Lost five million…" I murmur.

"Made it back in a week," Sherlock says. "That's how he made such easy money." This reminds me so much of working with Bruce. He used to always make sure I understood what he was talking about by helping me figure it out for myself instead of just flat out telling me.

"He was a smuggler," I say. I've met a few of those. Killed a few too.

"A guy like him– it would have been perfect," Sherlock says. "Business man, making frequent trips to Asia. And Lukis was the same. A journalist writing about China."

I nod.

"Both of them smuggled stuff out," Sherlock says, "and the Lucky Cat was their drop-off."

"But why did they die?" I ask. "I mean, it doesn't make sense. If they both turn up at the shop and deliver the goods, why would someone threaten them and kill them after the event, after they'd finished the job?" Usually, mob bosses are happy once you make your deliveries.

Sherlock sits back, a thoughtful look on his face, and then he grins. "What if one of them was light-fingered?"

"He stole something?" I ask.

"Yes, something from the hoard," Sherlock says.

"And the killer doesn't know which of them took it, so he threatens them both," I say. "Makes sense."

"Remind me," Sherlock says, looking at a phone book. "When was the last time that it rained?"

Sherlock gets up and starts to leave. I just follow him, again reminded of how I used to run after B whenever we were on a case in Gotham.

_Damn, I _really _need to stop thinking about Bruce right now._

Sherlock takes a look at the phone book. The plastic wrapping is still wet. "It's been here since Monday." He straightens up and presses the doorbell to the flat that belongs to someone named Soo Lin.

There's no answer, so Sherlock proceeds to walk down into a nearby alleyway. I follow him.

"No-one's been in that flat for at least three days," Sherlock says.

I nod, noticing the open windows. "I'm guessing she didn't go on vacation, considering she left her windows open. That'd be a pretty dumb thing to do."

Sherlock nods, and then runs at the metal fire escape, jumping up to grab the end, pulls it down towards him, runs up the step to the open window, and then closes the latter.

I blink. "Sherlock!" Damn it! At least Batman would _wait _for me, not ditch me outside in the alleyway.

I dash around to the front of the house.

"Someone else has been here," Sherlock calls from inside. If I didn't have good hearing, I wouldn't have heard what he said. "Somebody else broke into the flat and knocked over the vase just like I did."

"Yeah, can you let me in?" I ask. I could get in myself a numerous amount of ways, but all of them would reveal abilities I'm not so sure I want Sherlock to know I have. Scaling the building to get to an open window, using my grappling hook to get there, the kind of strength it would take to kick the door down.

"I'm not the first!" Sherlock calls. "Somebody's been in here before me!"

"What?" who else would have gone into Soo Lin's flat?

"Size eight feet," I hear Sherlock mutter to himself. "Small, but… athletic."

I sigh in annoyance, realizing he isn't going to let me in and knowing I can't get myself in without revealing some of my hidden talents I have gotten from training nearly my entire life.

"Small, strong hands," Sherlock murmurs. I can barely hear him now. It's not like I have super hearing.

"Our acrobat," he says. At the word acrobat, I immediately think of Dick. "But why didn't he close the window when he left? Oh, stupid. _Stupid_. Obvious. He's still here."

What? Please tell me he is joking and he's not in a building with a murderous acrobat.

"Sherlock Holmes, you let me in right now!" I yell. "Just because you have some massive intellect that no one else can compete with doesn't mean you always have to work alone!"

I hear the sound of a body slamming into the floor, and choking noises.

Screw hiding my training.

I kick the door down and dash in, just in time to see someone with a cowl over his face dressed in all black trying to strangle Sherlock.

I lunge at him, managing to punch him in the face.

The man falls back, springing away from me, and realizing he is now facing two rather tall, muscular opponents, dashes towards the window and jumps out.

My first instinct is to pursue, but that's what got me killed, remember? Going after the Joker without Batman.

Besides, Sherlock needs me right now.

"Are you all right?" I ask immediately, getting the scarf off his neck and helping him sit up.

"Yeah, fine," Sherlock says."The, uh, milk's gone off and the washing's starting to smell. Somebody left here in a hurry three days ago."

"Somebody?" I ask, examining his throat to make sure there's no damage.

Sherlock nods, his voice rough and scratchy. "Soo Lin Yao. We have to find her."

"How?" I ask him.

He picks up a folded envelope with the writing:

SOO LIN  
Please ring me  
tell me you're  
OK  
Andy

NATIONAL  
ANTIQUITIES  
MUSEUM

"Maybe we could start with this," Sherlock croaks, attempting to get to his feet.

"Hang on," I say, "I'm helping you."

"What?" he says. "John, I am perfectly capable of walking on my own."

"No, you were almost strangled," I snap, putting his arm over my shoulder.

"John-"

"No," I say. "Look, I don't like this any more than you do. It means I have to touch you, and frankly, I'm not too big on contact, so just shut up, and let someone help you for once."

He gazes at me, an odd look on his face, as if he is searching for some hidden answer.

"…Fine," he says. "But just this once, and in exchange, you'll have to let me help you one day."

I glare. "We'll see."

* * *

When we get to the museum, Sherlock immediately interviews this Andy person, while I as usual, glare at the guy.

"When was the last time that you saw her?" he asks about Soo Lin Yao.

"Three days ago," Andy says. "Here at the museum. This morning they told me she'd resigned just like that."

Sherlock stares intensely at the display cases.

"Just left her work unfinished."

Sherlock turns to look back at Andy. "What was the last thing that she did on her final afternoon?"

Andy leads us down to the basement. "She does this demonstration for the tourists. A tea ceremony. So she would have packed up her things and just put them in here."

He is leading us over to where she would have packed her things, when Sherlock

stops, staring at a sculpture of a woman with the mandarin symbols one and fifteen on it as well.

* * *

That evening, we leave the museum and begin to walk down the street.

"We have to get to Soo Lin Yao," Sherlock says.

"If she's still alive," I mutter.

"Sherlock!" I hear the familiar voice of Raz calls as the tagger joins us. "Found something you'll like."

He runs off, and Sherlock immediately follows. I hesitate for a moment, not trusting the guy, but ultimately, I follow too.

He leads us to Hungerford Bridge, heading towards the side of the river.

"If you want to hide a tree, then a forest is the best place to do it, wouldn't you say?

People would just walk straight past, not knowing, unable to decipher the message," Sherlock says.

Raz gestures towards one of the walls covered from practically every inch in graffiti. I feel like I am in Crime Alley again. "There. I spotted it earlier."

Amongst the other taggings, there is lots of yellow paint forming more Chinese symbols.

"They _have_ been in here," Sherlock says. "And that's the exact same paint?"

"Yeah," Raz says.

"John," Sherlock says, "if we're going to decipher this code, we're gonna need to look for more evidence."

* * *

The two of us split up to find evidence easier. To be honest, I'm not comfortable leaving Sherlock alone after he almost got strangled, but he insisted. I considered planting a bug on him so if anything bad happened, I'd know and could go help him, but I was afraid he's notice, since he seems to notice everything.

I walk towards an underpass, looking at all the graffiti and other tagging designs. Yeah, this definitely reminds me of Crime Alley. It almost makes me miss home, Gotham. Almost.

I get to the railway lines, putting on my domino mask and using the night vision I have in the white coverings for my eyes. I see yellow paint on the rails and sleepers and then raise my eyes up to the brick wall, which is covered in the mandarin symbols.

I pull out my phone to call Sherlock, only for him not to answer.

_Damn it!_

I quickly take a picture with my phone, just in case I forget the numbers, even though I know what they mean, and rush off to find Sherlock.

When I finally track the man who reminds me so much of a less hostile Bruce, he is looking at some container.

I sneak up on him using the stealth Bats taught me. "Answer your phone! I've been calling you!"

Sherlock jumps when he sees me. "Where did you come from?"

"Gotham," I growl out. "Now come on; I found it."

The two of us dash off.

When we get back to the wall, the designs are gone. "It's been painted over! Damn it!"

Sherlock shines his flash light over it. "Somebody doesn't want me to see it."

He spins around at a speed that would rival the flash and grabs my head in both his hands. I instantly flinch away at the contact. "What are you doing-!"

"Shh, John, concentrate," Sherlock says. "I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes."

"No, I'm not closing my eyes," I say.

Sherlock lowers his hands to grasp my arms instead.

"What are you doing?!" I snarl, trying to jerk away violently.

Sherlock holds tighter, trying to keep me there. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"

"Yeah," I say, still trying to rip away from him. I do remember what all the symbols meant, but since Sherlock doesn't know that I know mandarin, I'll just show him the picture.

"Can you remember it?" he demands to know, but isn't speaking in a harsh tone, just an urgent one.

"Yes," I say, attempting to jerk away once more.

"Can you remember the pattern?" he asks.

"Yes!" I succeed in ripping away this time.

"How _much_ can you remember it?" Sherlock asks.

"Don't worry-" I start, but Sherlock grabs a hold of me again, invading my personal space once more.

"Because the average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, well, don't worry," I say, jerking away again. "I remember it all."

"Really?" Sherlock looks at me with disbelief.

"Yeah," I say, taking out my phone. "I took a photograph." I show the image of the painted wall to Sherlock.

"Oh," he says. "Right. Let's go."

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you think? I'd really appreciate some more reviews; they truly make my day :) **

**1. When I say Jason notices an Asian woman taking a picture of them, I am not meaning to be racist. I have a friend who is Asian. I just don't know another way to describe it.**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter; I'll get to work on the next one. :D**

**Thanks again for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

Back at the flat, Sherlock and I gaze at the pictures all blown up and stuck on the mirror, each number translation in English written next to it.

Sherlock stands next to the fireplace when he spots the pattern. "Always in pairs, John."

That's totally something B would have noticed… and I really, _really _need to stop thinking about Bruce; it's like shooting myself in the foot.

"Numbers come with partners," Sherlock continues, looking at me.

My eyes find the clock, which says 1:00 a.m. "I'm glad I'm an insomniac," I mutter.

"You're an insomniac?" Sherlock asks.

I nod.

"Ah, good. You'll keep up quicker that way," he says. "Now, the question is: Why did he paint it so near the tracks?"

"Maybe he is hoping someone will get distracted by it and get hit by a train?" I suggest.

Sherlock shoots me a look. "Thousands of people pass by there every day… of course!" he stares at the photo of the full picture of the symbols, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

"Of course! He wants information. He's trying to communicate with his people in the underworld. Whatever was stolen, he wants it back."

Why didn't I think of that? That's what gangs did all the time in Crime Alley. It was one of the main purposes of tagging.

Sherlock runs his fingers over the symbols, and pulls a few photos off the wall. "Somewhere here in the code. We can't crack this without Soo Lin Yao."

He begins to head out of the room.

I follow him, really hoping she isn't dead.

We get back to the National Antiques Museum to talk to Andy again in that same display room.

"Two men who traveled back from China were murdered," Sherlock tells him, "and their killer left them messages in the Hangzhou numerals."

"Look," I say, "you friend, Soo Lin Yao's, in danger. Now, that cipher- it was just the same pattern as the others. He means to kill her as well."

"I've tried everywhere," Andy says, "Friends, colleagues. I don't know where she's gone. I mean, she could be a thousand miles away."

Sherlock turns away in exasperation, only to now focus intently on the glass case with the teapot display.

"What are you looking at?" I ask, following his gaze.  
Sherlock points at the case as he begins to walk towards it. "Tell me more about those teapots," he says to Andy.

"The pots were her obsession," Andy says nervously. "Uh, they need urgent work. If they dry out, then the clay can start to crumble. Apparently you have to keep making tea in them."

Sherlock looks closely at the shelf. "Yesterday, only one of those pots was shining. Now there are two."

* * *

That evening we go back to the museum.

One of the grates in the museum is pushed outwards, and a shadow moves across the dark room, headed towards the teapot display.

Sherlock and I move forwards, following the shadow of Soo Lin Yao as she picks up one of the teapots and pours some liquid into the cups.

"Fancy a biscuit with that?" Sherlock asks from behind her.

She spins around, gasping in terror, accidentally dropping her teapot.

Since Sherlock is closer, he lunges down to catch it first, just before it hits the floor.

"Centuries old," he comments, handing it back to her. "Don't want to break that."

After she takes it, he smiles. "Hello."

I just glare.

"John, smile," he says out of the corner of his mouth.

Now I'm glaring at him.

* * *

We all sit at a table together. "You saw the cipher," Soo Lin says. "Then you know he is coming for me."

"You've been clever to avoid him so far," Sherlock says.

"I had to finish… to finish this work. It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me," she says.

"Who is he?" Sherlock asks. "Have you met him before?"

Soo Lin nods. "When I was a girl, living back in China. I recognize his signature."

"The cipher," Sherlock says.

"Only _he_ would do this. Zhi Zhu," she says.

"Zhi Zhu? The Spider?" I ask.

"You know mandarin?" Sherlock asks me.

_Crap._

"Not much," I lie. "Just a bit."

Thankfully he buys it.

Soo Lin unlaces her shoe and takes it off to show us a black tattoo of a lotus flower on the bottom of her foot. "You know this mark?"  
"Yes. It's the mark of a Tong," Sherlock says, "Ancient crime syndicate based in China."

I nod, remembering learning that one my six-year world travels of training after being resurrected.

"Every foot soldier bears the mark; everyone who hauls for them," she says.

"Hauls? You mean, you were a smuggler," I say. It's not a question.

She puts her shoe back on. "I was fifteen. My parents were dead. I had no livelihood; no way of surviving day to day except to work for the bosses."

I can relate. If I didn't steal the tires off cars, my mom and I would have died, and eventually when she did die, I continued to boost the tires in order to survive. I don't blame Soo Lin for what she did in her past; it was the only way she could survive. She did what she had to.

"Who are they?" Sherlock asks.

"They are called the Black Lotus," Soo Lin says. "By the time I was sixteen, I was taking thousands of pounds' worth of drugs across the border into Hong Kong. But I managed to leave that life behind me. I came to England. They gave me a job here. Everything was good; a new life."

"Then he came looking for you," Sherlock says.

"Yes," she says, swallowing. "I had hoped after five years maybe they would have forgotten me, but they never really let you leave. A small community like ours – they are never very far away. He came to my flat. He asked me to help him to track down something that was stolen."

"And you've no idea what it was?" I ask.

"I refused to help," she says.

I lean forward. "So you knew him well when you were living back in China?"

"Oh yes," she looks up, "He's my brother. Two orphans. We had no choice. We could work for the Black Lotus, or starve on the streets like beggars. My brother has become their puppet; in the power of the one they call Shan– the Black Lotus general. I turned my brother away. He said I had betrayed him. Next day I came to work and the cipher was waiting."

Sherlock lays the photographs he took on the table. "Can you decipher these?"

"These are numbers," she says, gazing at it.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says.

"Here," she says, "the line across the man's eyes– it's the Chinese number one."

Sherlock points to the photo. "And this one is fifteen. But what's the code?"

"All the smugglers know it. It's based upon a book…" she says, and then the lights go out.

Sherlock stands up.

"He's here," Soo Lin says, terrified. "Zhi Zhu. He has found me."

Sherlock races across the room.

"Sherlock," I exclaim softly. "Sherlock, wait!"

It's too late though; he's left the room.

I grab Soo Lin's hand, my only thoughts of getting her to safety. "Come here." I pull her across the room and open the door to a closet. "Get in!"

As soon as I get her in, I hear a gunshot ring out.

"Damn," I mutter, suppressing fear. "I have to go and help. Bolt the door after me."

I run out and onto the foyer, just in time for more gunshots to ring out. I really wish I was wearing Kevlar.

The man continues to fire at Sherlock as he hides behind a display case of ancient skulls. He calls, "Careful! Some of those skulls are over two hundred thousand years old! Have a bit of respect!"

Does he really think a murderous shooter has respect for skulls? They're already dead. If it was the Joker, he'd probably make a joke about shooting them, like how he made a joke out of beating me wit that crowbar. Turning it into a damned survey about what hurts the most.

The gunshots stop. "Thank you!" Sherlock calls, but I know that isn't a good sign. If the shooter isn't shooting at him anymore, then he's lost interest in him, and is no longer here.

All of a sudden, some drumming sounds start. _Shit, that is _not _a good sign._

I begin to dash back towards Soo Lin, but I am too late.

A single gunshot rings out.

"No," I whisper.

I rush back to the room with Soo Lin, only to find her dead on the table, her hand stretched out and a single black origami lotus flower in her palm.

I'd failed again.

* * *

I still feel so guilty for leaving that girl alone. I know how it feels to die, to be so scared before it happens, whether or not you've accepted it or not, it's still scary, and now she does too, because I couldn't save her.

And of course, Dimmock is being a moronic ass and is ignoring everything we say.

"How many murders is it gonna take before you start believing that this maniac's out there?" I snarl at him. This reminds me too much of how B just let the Joker get away with murdering me. He just put him back in Arkham, and Dimmock is doing nothing about this murderer.

Dimmock walks towards another desk. I follow him, tempted to punch him in the neck.

"A young girl was gunned down tonight," I snap. "That is three victims in three days. You're supposed to be finding him."

Sherlock walks in front of me to get closer to Dimmock, and possibly to get me away from him, considering I was drawing my fist back. "Brian Lukis and Eddie Van Coon were working for a gang of international smugglers," Sherlock says. "A gang called the Black Lotus operating here in London _right_ under your nose."

"Can you prove that?" Dimmock asks.

Sherlock looks thoughtful.

* * *

Back at the flat, we both stand in the living room.

"Not just a criminal organization; it's a cult. Her brother was corrupted by one of its leaders," Sherlock says.

"Soo Lin said the name," I remind him.

"Yes, Shan," Sherlock says. "General Shan."

"We're still no closer to finding them," I mutter, wondering if I should contact some of my own contacts in the underworld as Red Hood and see what I can find out.

"Wrong," Sherlock says. "We've got almost all we need to know. She gave us most of the missing pieces. Why did he need to visit his sister? Why did he need _her_ expertise?"

"She worked at the museum," I murmur.

"Exactly."

"He needed an expert in antiquities," I catch on.

"_Valuable_ antiquities, John," Sherlock says. "Ancient Chinese relics purchased on the black market. China's home to a thousand treasures hidden after Mao's revolution.

"And the Black Lotus is selling them."

Sherlock begins to look up Crispians' website for recent auctions of Chinese art. I lean over his shoulder, looking at the screen too, like I used to do with B.

"Check for the dates…" Sherlock murmurs and then points to an auction of two Chinese Ming vases. "Here, John. Arrived from China four days ago. Anonymous. Vendor doesn't give his name. Two undiscovered treasures from the East."

"One in Lukis' suitcase and one in Van Coon's," I murmur.

Sherlock moves the search and speaks what he types. "Antiquities sold at auction. Look, here's another one."

I nod, still watching.

"It arrived from China a month ago," Sherlock continues. "Chinese ceramic statue, sold four hundred thousand."

I look at Lukis's journal. "Ah, look: a month before that. A Chinese painting, half a million."

"All of them from an anonymous source. They're stealing them back in China and one by one they're feeding them into Britain," Sherlock says.

I look at the journal again, and then the print out of Van Coon's calendar."And every single auction coincides with Lukis or Van Coon traveling to China."

"So what if one of them got greedy when they were in China?" Sherlock asks. "What if one of them stole something?"

"That's why Zhi Zhu's come," I say. To get back what was stolen from the Black Lotus. Damn, aren't people smart enough not to cross a Cult called the Black Lotus?

Mrs. Hudson knocks on the door. We both spin around to look at her. "Sorry. Are we collecting for charity, Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock asks.

"A young man's outside with crates of books," she replies.

After a bunch of cops bring the books in, Sherlock says, "So, the numbers are references."

"To books," I say.

"To specific pages and specific words on those pages," Sherlock says.

"Right, so… fifteen and one. That means-"

"Turn to page fifteen and it's the first word you read," Sherlock finishes.

"Okay. So what's the message?" I ask.

"Depends on the book," Sherlock says in a snarky tone. "That's the cunning of the book _code_. Has to be one that they both owned."

I look around at all the crates. "Great," I say sarcastically. "We should probably get to work." I pad over to a crate and open the lid, pulling out a few books. I remember back when I would have had a lot of trouble reading these, back before B made sure I got lots of English and Literature classes, back before I ever even got a single class of school.

Dimmock walks into the flat, holding a bag of evidence containing the photographs of the cipher Sherlock showed to Soo Lin. "Is this your writing?"

"We hoped Soo Lin could decipher it for us," I explain, going back to my book.

"Anything else I can do? To assist you, I mean?" Dimmock asks Sherlock.

Without looking up, Sherlock says, "Some silence right now would be marvelous."

Dimmock looks at me, and I glare at him. Cowering before the glare Batman taught me, Dimmock leaves the room, leaving Sherlock and me to look in the books for the words to translate the code.

* * *

"I need to get some air," Sherlock says. "We're going out tonight."

"Okay," I say. "Where?"

He hands me a piece of paper that advertises the Yellow Dragon Circus.

_Circus. _I immediately think of Dick.

"In London for one night only," Sherlock says.

"Okay," I shrug.

"Splendid!" Sherlock says, grabbing his coat and heading out.

I follow him, not needing to grab my own coat, since I rarely take it off.

We approach the manager when we get there.

"Two tickets reserved for tonight," Sherlock says.

"And what's the name?" the manager asks.

"Holmes," Sherlock says.

The manager pulls out the two tickets, hands them to us, and we go inside.

"Yellow Dragon Circus, in London for one day. It _fits_. The Tong sent an assassin to England…" Sherlock says. "We're looking for a killer who can climb, who can shin up a rope. Where else would you find that level of dexterity? Exit visas are scarce in China. They need a pretty good reason to get out of that country. Now, all I need to do is have a quick look round the place…"

"Okay," I say.

"This way," Sherlock says, guiding me away.

"This doesn't look like an average circus," I admit.

"This is not their day job," Sherlock whispers to me.

"Right, of course," I say. "They're smugglers."

One of the performers who was a singer walks across the circle to a crossbow on a stand. She picks up an arrow and shows it to the audience before putting it into place in the crossbow. she pulls a white feather from her headdress and shows it to the audience. On the end of the crossbow is a small metal cup and she drops the feather into it. The arrow is immediately released and zooms across the room.

Sherlock's head whips around to follow its flight. By the time they look round a moment later, the arrow is embedded in a large painted board on the other side of the circle. Another performer enters the stage, wearing chain mail and a head mask that reminds me of the vigilantes in Gotham and Starling City. He spreads his arms out to the sides and two men come over and attach heavy chains and straps to him, tying his arms in front of him and then pushing him up against the board and starting to chain him to it.

"Classic Chinese escapology act," Sherlock says. "The crossbow is on a delicate string. The warrior has to escape his bonds before it fires."

I noticed that. After all, I am an expert in escapology myself. You have to be to work with Batman. Sherlock has no idea how many times I have been tied up in some way.

Once the man is completely restrained, the singer lifts up a knife and shows it to the audience.

"She splits the sandbag," Sherlock says. "The sand pours out; gradually the weight lowers into the bowl."

The singer does just that, and the man begins to struggle like crazy until he gets one hand free, and begins to tug at the chains around his neck. Eventually, he gets his other hand free, and continues to loosen the chains around his neck. The weight of the sand begins to touch the bowl just as the man pulls free and gets out of the way just before the arrow strikes the board.

I notice Sherlock leaving, and attempt to follow him, but there are too many people in my way.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the distant moonlight shores of the Yangtze River, we present for your pleasure the deadly Chinese bird-spider," the singer says.

A masked acrobat begins to move through the air on a red band. I stare at him, knowing he is probably our killer, but still instantly thinking of Dick anyway. Dick was an acrobat in a circus. Deep down, though I will never admit it, I miss Dick, and Bruce, and Alfred… but it doesn't matter. _None _of them ever avenged me.

Now, I've really got to find Sherlock. Who knows what stupid thing he is doing now?

All of a sudden, Sherlock flies through the curtains, over the stage and onto the floor. The man who was almost Shish Kabobbed with the arrow lunges at Sherlock, raising his knife to plunge into him.

I tackle him first, using all the martial arts I learned during and after my tenure as Robin. Eventually, the man begins to flee from me, and the audience flees the room as well.

The acrobat rips off his mask and runs off.

Sherlock finally gets up, grabbing my arm. "Come on!"

"But-" I really want to pursue that creep I was fighting.

"No time, John!" he yells.

* * *

Back at the office, Dimmock storms in. "I sent a couple of cars. The old hall is totally deserted."

"Look, I saw the mark at the circus," Sherlock says. "That tattoo that we saw on the two bodies. The mark of the Tong."

Dimmock has reached the desk, glaring at us.

I glare right back. "Lukis and Van Coon were part of a smuggling operation. Now, one of them stole something valuable when they were in China."

"These circus performers were gang members sent here to get it back," Sherlock says.

"Get _what_ back?" Dimmock asks.

Sherlock bites his lip and looks away, angry that we still don't know what they stole.

"We don't know," I admit.

"You don't know," Dimmock says. I glare at him until he looks away from me.

"Mr. Holmes…" Dimmock says, "I've done everything you asked. Lestrade seems to think your advice is worth something. I gave the order for a raid; please tell me I will have something to show for it, other than a massive bill for overtime."

* * *

"They'll be back in China by tomorrow," I say when we are back at the flat. Or at least they will be if they are smart.

"No, they won't leave without what they came for," Sherlock says. "We need to find their hide-out; the rendezvous."

Their safe house. I have a lot of those all over the world.

Sherlock walks towards the photos. "Somewhere in this message it _must_ tell us."

Then Sherlock notices something. "John, look at this."

"What?" I move closer.

He shows me the photo from the evidence bag. "Soo Lin at the museum. She started to translate the code for us. We didn't see it! 'nine' 'mill'."

"Does that mean millions?" I ask.

"Nine million quid," Sherlock murmurs. "For what? We need to know the end of this sentence."

"Where are you going?"

"To the museum," he says. "To the restoration room. Oh, we must have been staring right at it!"

"The book?" I ask.

"Yes, John," Sherlock says. "The _book_. The key to cracking the cipher!" he shows me the photo. "Soo Lin used it to do this! Whilst we were running around the gallery, she started to translate the code. It must be on her desk."

And then he runs out the door, ditching me here, kind of like how B used to sometimes ditch me at the Bat-cave.

A little while later, I hear a knock at the door. I am a little hesitant to open it, but eventually I do.

"Do you have it?" a Chinese man asks me.

_Oh, shit._

"What?" I take a step back, reaching for gun, only to remember I took it out of its holster.

"The treasure," he says, and then he and about five of his buddies lunge at me.

* * *

**AN: Dun, dun, dun! Oh, no, Jason's being attacked! If you want him to live, review, MWAHAHAHA! Just kidding, I could never kill Little Wing, though I still would love it if you reviewed. :) The reason I have not included Jason getting a job, is because I figured he would have saved up some money over the years that he could use to help pay the rent, I mean, after all, he has a new costume and weaponry and has been living on his own for six years; he's figured something out. Also, if he got a job, he'd have to meet Sarah, and I don't think Jason is ready for a romantic relationship. He has too many skeletons in the closet, and needs to face his past first.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

After a long fight with those men, where I managed to kill three of them, I lost consciousness when they injected three extremely heavy sedatives into me; it took that many.

When I regain consciousness, they have tied me to a chair in some dark, abandoned building. They have a fire burning somewhere behind me.

I immediately begin to test my bonds, finding them to be tight, but nothing a little dislocation won't get me out of, if I can work unseen.

Of course, fate seems to hate me; after all, it already killed me once, because that woman who was the singer in the circus walks out.

"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket. Chinese proverb, Mr. Watson," she says, but my eyes are latched on the cloth-covered object in front of me. Damn, it's that crossbow, isn't it? Well, it's a good thing I have practiced arrow cutting, not that it's going to matter if I don't have access to my hands.

"You are Mr. Holmes's American companion," she says. "We have seen you traveling with him, and he loaned you his Debit card, and we heard you yell at him about his massive intellect."

The woman grins as I continue to subtly twist my wrists around in the ropes, trying to work them loose without dislocating my thumb. "I am Shan."

"_You're_ Shan," I say. Well, not the first time I have met a villainess. After all, there's Poison Ivy, Talia Al Ghul, Harley Quinn…

"Three times we tried to Mr. Holmes and you, his companion, Mr. Watson," she says.

"What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?"

She lifts her hand and cocks a pistol. I instinctively try to move away, even though I can't. This won't be the first time I have been shot, but I have a feeling that if she shoots me, it won't be the last time she does. She wants information; she is not going to kill me quickly.

She looks at me, and her finger tightens on the trigger, pulling it. The gun clicks, but nothing happens.

Oh, great. She's playing with me!

"I guess it tells me that you're not really trying," I say to her.

Shan grins, and slides a clip into the pistol, cocking the trigger and pointing it at me again. "Not blank bullets now."

"Okay," I say, destroying all tells that show fear.

"If we wanted to kill you and Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson, we would have done it by now," she says. "We just wanted to make you inquisitive."

"Do you have it?"

"Do I have _what?"_ I snap.

"The treasure," she says.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I say. What stupid treasure? Is she talking about what Van Coon and Lukis stole? Well, sorry, lady, Sherlock and I haven't gotten that far.

"I would prefer to make certain," she says, and her men pull the cover off the crossbow.

Shit.

"Everything in the West has its price; and the price for your life is information," she says. "Where's the hairpin?"

I continue to twist my wrist. "Do I _look _like I use hairpins, lady?"

She gets in my face. "The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London and Mr. Holmes and yourself, Mr. Watson, have been searching."

"Yeah, well we haven't finished our little scavenger hunt for it, sorry!" I snap.

"Well, that's too bad, because I need a volunteer from the audience!" Shan says.

Can you just shoot me and not go all-theatrical about it?

"Ah, thank you, young man," she says to me, putting her hands on my shoulders, making me try to flinch away. "Yes, you'll do very nicely."

Shan smiles at me vindictively. She takes out her knife and reaches us to the sandbag and cuts it. Sand begins to pout out.

Well, it looks like I am dying a second time. At least this time it'll probably only take a few minutes rather than a few hours.

Shan smiles and looks around at the other performers. "Ladies and gentlemen. From the distant moonlit shores of NW1, we present for your pleasure Sherlock Holmes' companion in a death-defying act."

I continue to struggle, working on dislocating my thumb.

Shan places a black origami lotus flower in my lap. "You've seen the act before. How dull for you. You know how it ends."

"_Damn it! I don't have your stupid hairpin!" _I yell at her.

"I don't believe you," she says.

"You should, you know," Sherlock's voice sounds out. Shan spins around to see his silhouette. "John hates things like hairpins; just look at him."

She raises her pistol and aims it at Sherlock, but her dashes over to the side of the tunnels, vanishing into the shadows. Shan's thugs run after him.

"_You _are Sherlock Holmes?" Shan asks.

"Of course," Sherlock says. "Can't you tell? How would _you_ describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Enigmatic?"

"Late?" I ask. He still got here earlier than B did.

"That's a semi-automatic. If you fire it, the bullet will travel at over a thousand meters per second," Sherlock says, ignoring my comment and speaking to Shan.

"Well?"

"Well," Sherlock says. "The radius curvature of these walls is nearly four meters. If you miss, the bullet will ricochet. Could hit _anyone_. Might even bounce off the tunnel and hit _you."_

Sherlock dashes out and kicks over the dustbin holding the fire. It immediately becomes dark, but that's all right with me. Creepy lady can't see, and I was trained to fight in darkness when I was Robin.

Sherlock attempts to get to me, but Soo Lin's brother, Liang, runs over to him and loops a red scarf around his throat, attempting to strangle him.

I dislocate my thumb and tear my wrist free, but I still have to free my legs.

Just before the arrow flies, Sherlock flings Liang off him, and he flies right into the arrow as it fires, falling over, dead.

General Shan is gone having already left the building during the fight.

Sherlock gets the scarf off his neck and immediately comes over to me, puts his hands on my shoulders. "It's all right," he says, his voice soothing, though I don't know why he is trying to calm me down. No one's ever done that before. "You're gonna be all right. It's over now. It's over."

"You came," I say, staring at him as he helps me get my legs free.

"Of course I did," he says. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"It's just…" _Bruce never got there in time. _"Never mind."

"Come on," he says, helping me stand up. "We must call the police."

* * *

We're back at the flat after Sherlock talks to the police. "So, 'Nine mill'."

"Million," Sherlock says, pouring some tea.

""Nine million for jade pin," I say. "Dragon den, black Tramway."

"An instruction to all their London operatives," he says. "A message; what they were trying to reclaim."

"A jade pin?" I still can't believe it.

"Worth nine million pounds. Bring it to the Tramway, their London hideout," he says.

"Wait," I say, "a _hairpin_ worth nine million pounds?"

"Apparently," Sherlock says.

"Why so much?" I ask.

"Depends who owned it," Sherlock says. "Listen, are you sure you're all right?"

I nod. "Yeah, why?"

"It's just, you _did _nearly die," he says.

"Yeah, but…" I don't know whether or not I should admit this, but I do. "I've been through worse."

"Your near death experience?"

I nod, almost numbly, and for a minute I can see the glint of a crowbar raised above me and the sound of a ticking bomb.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks.

"I- I can't tell you about that," I say.

"Why not?" he asks.

"Because I don't think I'm ready," I admit. I have never said what the Joker did to me out loud, so that is part of it, the other part is the rule: keep your identity a secret is still so engrained into my mind, that I don't think I could ever get the words: I was Robin, out.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "I understand."

"Thanks."

He smiles. "Come on; we need to head to the bank."

* * *

As we walk to the bank, Sherlock talks. "Two operatives based in London. They travel over to Dalian to smuggle those vases. One of them helps himself to something. A little hairpin."

"Worth nine million pounds," I say.

"Eddie Van Coon was the thief," Sherlock says. "He stole the treasure when he was in China."

"How do you know it was Van Coon, not Lukis? Even the killer didn't know that," I say.

Sherlock looks at me smugly. "Because of the soap."

Yeah, I'll never understand where he learns these things. I should probably just stick to shooting people and getting revenge.

* * *

**AN: Well, this chapter is kind of short, but I'll be working on the next one right now; I just wanted to finish up the Blind Banker.**

**As I said before, I draw off Batman: Under the Red Hood, so when Jason finally goes to get his revenge, Bruce won't have a new Robin yet, however I might include Tim and possibly Damian later. It all depends on how the story works out.**

**Please review! Reviews make my day. :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	14. Chapter 14

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

When I get back to the flat after a walk, I hear the sound of repetitive gunshots.

My heart almost jumps into my throat. _No!_

I run up the stairs as if I were a speedster, only to find Sherlock lying on the couch with a bored expression on his face, shooting the wall.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" I yell at him.

"Bored," Sherlock says, sullenly.

"What?" I snap in disbelief. He's shooting the wall because he is _bored?! _I though someone had broken in and was murdering him! After all, our flat isn't exactly a Bat-cave!

"Bored!" Sherlock says loudly, springing up and turning towards a smiley face on the wall, shooting it furiously. "Bored! Bored!"

I snatch the gun from him, pulling the bullets out of the gun without even looking at it while Sherlock continues to glare at the smiley face in a way that makes me think it wronged him or something.

"Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them," Sherlock says.

I put the pistol away. "So you take it out on the wall." I prefer to take my anger out on a punching bag or a target or sometimes even a mob boss, but that's just me.

"Ah, the wall had it coming," Sherlock says, flopping onto the sofa.

"What about that Russian case?" I ask, recovering from my fear of the thought of someone murdering Sherlock.

"Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time," Sherlock says.

I nod, and head over to open the fridge, only to be greeted by the sight of a severed head in it. I've seen plenty of severed heads, even severed a few myself, but I wasn't expecting this.

"Uh, Sherlock, not that severed heads bothered me, but please tell me its not in the fridge because you plan on eating it," I say.

"Just tea for me," he says with a smirk "I got it from Bart's morgue. I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death."

I begin to make him tea.

"So, why were you so concerned about me shooting the wall?" Sherlock asks.

"It's not the wall I was concerned about," I snap. "I was just worried…"

"Yes, go on?" he presses.

"I was worried someone was murdering you," I say.

"Why?"

"Because you're solving a lot of crimes, Sherlock, which can piss off big mob bosses and other criminals, and let's face it; our flat isn't exactly a good hideout," I say.

"A hideout? You mean like those costumed vigilantes from Gotham and Starling and Metropolis?" he says. "Well, those don't exactly always help them either."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, Batman's second Robin _died," _Sherlock says.

"What?" I ask, staring at him. B covered up my death though. How did he…?

"It's obvious, isn't it?" he asks. "The first Robin was more of an acrobat that the second, and he left when he was eighteen to go to Bludhaven, taking up the identity of Nightwing. I know this because Nightwing has the same sort of acrobatic skills as the first Robin did, and appeared shortly after the first Robin disappeared.

"As for the second Robin," he continues. "He was obviously in his early teens judging by his build and height when he disappeared after a case with Batman going after the Joker in Sarajevo, where there was an explosion that happened to kill a boy named Jason Todd, ward of Bruce Wayne, billionaire, surely you've heard of him, being from Gotham? The second Robin was obviously killed by the Joker, since that's when he disappeared and no other identity was assumed after that with anyone of his build and with his skills. Therefore, hideouts _don't _always help you."

I stare at him for a moment, a thousand emotions building and conflicting within me.

Anger, sadness, pain… I need to get out of here, _now._

I spin around and head for the door.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks.

"Out. I need some air," I say, closing the door behind me, heading for one of my safe houses. I can't go back there tonight, not with how I feel right now. He just spoke about my death so… so _casually. _As if it was nothing more than an obvious piece of evidence he just happened to find interesting enough to remember.

He even spoke about the death Bruce fibbed about to cover up my real one, even mentioned my _name. _

I don't know how I am supposed to feel about that, but right now, I feel like killing someone, so it is probably a good thing that I left.

* * *

That of course has to be the night the flat gets _bombed._

As soon as I get back to Baker Street, I shove past all the people and practically demand the police let me through once I tell them I live at 221B

I dash up the stairs. "Sherlock. Sherlock!"

I get inside to see Sherlock looking intensely annoyed, but not at me, rather at his bother Mycroft.

He looks up at me. "John."

Mycroft glances at me to, but I ignore him.

"I saw the news. Are you okay?" I ask, almost frantic, remembering the fear I used to feel whenever B would go out on something really dangerous and leave me behind, insisting it was too dangerous for me to go, and he wanted to keep me safe.

_Look how well _that _turned out._

"Hmm? What?" he looks around the flat as if he has forgotten what happened. "Oh, yeah. Fine. Gas leak, apparently." Then he turns back to his brother. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft looks shocked.

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time," Sherlock says.  
I stare at him. Wasn't he so bored he was shooting the wall yesterday?

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance," Mycroft insists.

"How's the diet?" Sherlock asks, fingering his broken violin strings.

Mycroft doesn't take the bait. "_Fine_. Perhaps _you_ can get through to him, John."

"What?" I ask. usually when someone wants me to get through to someone, it involves punching them until they agree to whatever I say.

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent," Mycroft says.

Yep, sounds more and more like Bruce to me every day.

"If you're so keen, why don't _you_ investigate it?" Sherlock inquires.

"I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so…" Mycroft begins to trail off. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?"

"Besides, a case like this, it requires," he grimaces. "Legwork."

"So, John, how was the mattress you slept on?" he asks me.

"It was the floor," I say.

Sherlock looks me up and down. "Oh yes, of course."

Mycroft smiles at me in a creepy way. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… pals."

Sherlock glares at him.

"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine," Mycroft says.

"He's not as bad as my guardian was," I mutter.

"Good! That's good, isn't it?" Mycroft says.

"You have a guardian?" Sherlock asks me.

"Not anymore, and _not _the time," I snap.

Mycroft shows me a folder. "Andrew West, known as Westie to his friends. A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?" I ask, remembering people in Gotham doing that down in the subways all the time when they wanted to off themselves.

"Seems the logical assumption," Mycroft says.

"But…?"

"But?" Mycroft asks.

"Well, you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident," I say.

Sherlock smirks.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defense system – the Bruce-Partington Program, it's called," Mycroft says. "The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That was pretty dumb," I say wryly.

Sherlock smiles in agreement.

"It's not the only copy," Mycroft protests.

"_Oh," _I say mockingly.

He shoots me a peevish look. "But it _is_ secret. And missing."

"_Top_ secret?" I ask. I've had to keep a lot of things top secret my entire life. My identity as Robin, and as Red Hood, Batman, Nightwing, and Batgirl's identities, my own death, and before all that, I had to keep my mother's illness and addiction a secret and the fact that I was a thief providing for my mother and not going to school.

"Very," Mycroft says. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands. You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock breathes in sharply. "I'd like to see you try."

"Think it over," Mycroft tries to look threatening.

Neither of us are impressed.

Mycroft walks over to me, extending his hand. "Goodbye, John."

Grudgingly, I take it, and Mycroft smiles creepily. "See you _very_ soon."

For some reason, that reminds me of when the Joker told me: _'__And, hey… please tell the big man I said, "Hello."_

I stare after him, not liking what he said one bit, and then I turn to Sherlock. "Why'd you lie? You've got nothing on. Not a single case. That's why the wall took a beating. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock shrugs.

"Ah, you just wanted to piss him off," I say. "I see. Sibling rivalry."

Sherlock's phone suddenly rings. He pulls it out and speaks into it. "Sherlock Holmes. Of course. How could I refuse?"

"Lestrade. I've been summoned. Coming?" he says.

I find it amusing how he goes immediately to Lestrade, but refuses to help Mycroft. "If you want me to."

"Of course," Sherlock picks up his coat, and motions for me to follow him. "I'd be lost without my bodyguard."

I smirk. Apparently, Dimmock has spread the word.

* * *

"You like the funny cases, don't you?" Lestrade asks Sherlock. "The surprising ones."

"Obviously," Sherlock says.

"You'll love _this_. That explosion…"

"Gas leak, yes?"

"No."

"No?" Sherlock looks startled.

"No. Made to _look_ like one," Lestrade says.

"What?" I ask.

Lestrade gives Sherlock an envelope. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box, a _very_ strong box and inside it was this."

"You haven't opened it?" Sherlock asks.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade says.

Sherlock reaches towards it, hesitantly.

"We've X-rayed it. It's not booby-trapped," Lestrade tells him.

"How reassuring!" Sherlock exclaims, not looking reassured at all.

He begins to examine the envelope. "Nice stationery. Bohemian. From the Czech Republic. No fingerprints?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "No."

He looks at the writing. "She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duo fold. Iridium nib."

"She?" I ask

"Obviously," Sherlock says, opening the envelope carefully and pulling out a pink iphone.

"Is that the pink lady's phone?" I ask.

"What? Jennifer Wilson's?" Lestrade asks.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like it," Sherlock says. "It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it _look_ like the same phone."

Suddenly, the phone gets an alert. "You have one new message." Five short pips sound out from it.

"Is that it?" I ask, though I don't like the sound of those pips. There is a hidden meaning behind them; I know it.

"No. That's _not_ it," Sherlock says.

A photograph is sent to the phone. It is of an unfurnished room with peeling wallpaper and a tall mirror in the corner, and another small mirror on the mantelpiece.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade exclaims. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

"It's a warning," Sherlock says. "Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going to happen again. And I've seen this place before." He begins to walk off.

"Hang on," I follow him. "_What's_ gonna happen again?"

Sherlock turns back and looks at me. "_Boom!"_

I stiffen for a moment, remembering the sound of the seconds going down and then the loud boom of the explosion as fire consumed me, casting a horrible pain over my entire body before draining what little life it still had from it…

I follow Sherlock, my memories still racing through my mind I barely notice Lestrade follow us too.

* * *

Sherlock has Mrs. Hudson let us into 221A. He examines the padlock as Mrs. Hudson speaks to him. "You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat."

He looks at the keyhole. "The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be," Mrs. Hudson says. "That's the only key."

Sherlock pulls off the padlock and inserts the key into the door.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat," Mrs. Hudson tells us. "It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements."

I don't actually mind basements. Creepy, dark basements are nice places to be. Then again, once I was adopted by Bruce, I was practically living in the Bat-cave. I used to talk to the bats when I was bored and Bruce and Alfred weren't around…

Sherlock opens the door as Mrs. Hudson continues to speak. "I had a place once when I was first married. Black mold all up the walls…"

We head inside.

When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock pushes the door of the living room open and we go inside. It's just like the photograph, except there is a pair of trainers shoes placed in the middle of the floor.

Sherlock begins to walk towards them, but I grasp his shoulder before he can. "He's a bomber, remember."

Sherlock stops for a moment, considering what I said, and then moves towards the stupid shoes anyway. Just as he is about to touch them, the pink phone rings.

"Hello?" Sherlock speaks into it.

A female voice speaks with a shaky, tear-filled breath. "H-hello… sexy."

_Oh, no, this isn't the bomber; he has a hostage._

"Who's this?" Sherlock asks.

She's not going to answer you, Sherlock.

"I've… sent you a little puzzle… just to say hi," she sobs.

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?" Sherlock says.

"I-I'm not… crying… I'm typing…" the woman sobs. "and this… stupid bitch… is reading it out."

"The curtain rises," Sherlock murmurs softly.

"What?" I ask him.

"Nothing," he says.

"No, what did you mean?" I ask.

Sherlock turns to look at me. "I've been expecting this for some time."

He _has?_

"Twelve hours to solve… my puzzle, Sherlock…" the woman continues. "Or I'm going to be… so naughty."

The line goes dead, but I know exactly what that means. If Sherlock doesn't solve the puzzle, that woman is going to blow up, just like I did.

* * *

Later, Sherlock goes back to Bart's college to examine some stuff.

"So, who do you think it was?" I ask.

Sherlock gets a text but does nothing about it. "Hmm?"

"The woman on the phone– the crying woman," I say.

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there," he says.

"I know she was a hostage," I snap, "but how can you say she doesn't matter like that?!"

"You're being awfully defensive about that," Sherlock comments. "John, was your near-death experience a hostage situation?"

"No," I growl.

"It was, wasn't it?" Sherlock says. "Or you were at least held prisoner in some way. Had to depend on someone else to save you?"

"_Shut. Up."_ My eyes burn black fire.

"Who kidnapped you?" Sherlock asks, looking concerned and intrigued at the same time.

The Joker's laughing face flashes before me.

"I said, _shut up!" _I snarl at him. "Are they _trying_ to trace the call?"

"The bomber's too smart for that," Sherlock says hastily. "Don't change the subject."

"I'll change the damn subject if I want to!"

The phone gets another text. "Pass me my phone."

"Where is it?" I snap, still angry.

"Jacket," Sherlock says.

Angrily, I thrust my hand into his pocket and hand him his phone. "Text from your brother." I suddenly miss my brother, and the way he would never press me to talk about things if I didn't want to. The way he would just give me a hug and tell me things were going to be all right and that he wouldn't let anything happen to me…

_Thanks for trying, Dick. I know you always tried to help me, even if in the end I did die._

"Delete it. Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it," he says. "Now, back to our previous subject-"

"I'm not talking about that with you," I snap.

"Yes you are," he says.

"Why don't you make me?"

Sherlock has a look on his face that I don't like, and then he surprises me by jumping at me and handcuffing me to the table.

"What the hell?!" I yell, jerking on the cuff. "Where did you get this?"

"I told you I pickpocket Lestrade when he is annoying," Sherlock says. "Now, tell me, what happened to you? You were held hostage, yes?"

"Go crawl up your ass!" I yell at him, dislocating my thumb.

Sherlock pops it back in place quickly.

"Damn it!" I snarl as the pain sears through my hand. When dislocating your own joints, you've got to take it slow.

"None of that now," Sherlock says, getting up in my face. "Now, what _happened?"_

The computer beeps, and the screen flashes Search Complete, but Sherlock ignores it.

"Well?" he asks, as I wonder how the heck I am going to get out of this. I could lie about who kidnapped me and what happened, but this is _Sherlock _we're talking about; there's no way he's fall for any lie I tell him.

I am saved by Molly Hooper walking in. "What are you doing?!" she exclaims, seeing Sherlock pushing me up against the table.

Sherlock stands back. "Nothing, just had a bit of luck," he gestures to the screen, and then leans in to whisper in my ear. "We'll continue this discussion later."

"No, we won't," I hiss back, dislocating my thumb again and beginning to pull my hand free.

A man in his thirties with dark hair who I immediately don't like walks in. "Oh, sorry. I didn't…"

"Jim, hi!" Molly says. "Come in! Come in!"

Sherlock looks up briefly, and then turns back to his work.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes," Molly says, and then turns to look at me. "And, uh… sorry.

"Ja- John Watson," I lie, almost saying Jason Todd. Sometimes, I am still getting used to that.

Sherlock looks up, intrigued by my 'stutter', looking for hidden meanings.

"Hi," Jim says, staring at Sherlock's back. "So _you're_ Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?"

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance," Molly says as she and Jim giggle.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Gay," Sherlock says, turning back to his work.

Molly's smile disappears. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock looks back up, giving a fake smile. "Nothing. Uh, hey."

Jim smiles creepily. "Hey," he accidentally knocks a petri dish over, and scrambles down to pick it up, giggling. "Sorry! Sorry!"

I turn away, rolling my eyes in annoyance at the awkward moment, and wonder if I can make a break for it through the door to avoid anymore of Sherlock's questions.

I take a single step forward, and Sherlock, not even looking up from his work, grabs a hold of me and pulls me down to sit beside him. "Nope, you're not going anywhere; don't even think about it."

I glare at him, but he doesn't notice since he is still focused on his work.

"Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?" Jim says to Molly.

"Yeah!" Molly says happily.

They say goodbye, and Jim looks back at Sherlock wistfully. "It was nice to meet you."

"Don't come back!" I shout after him, not liking the guy. There's something not right about him. The kind of look in his eyes… I've seen it before.

Jim blinks at me, and then leaves, looking hurt.

Molly glares at both of us, me for telling Jim not to come back and Sherlock for his earlier comment. "What do you mean, gay? We're together."

"And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly," Sherlock says. "You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half," she defends.

"Three," Sherlock contradicts.

"He's not gay. Why do you have to spoil…? He's not!" Molly looks near tears.

Sherlock snorts. "With that level of personal grooming?"

"I just thought he was creepy," I say.

"Tinted eyelashes; clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear," Sherlock says.

_He looked at his underwear?_

"His underwear?" Molly looks appalled.

"Visible above the waistline– very visible; very particular brand," Sherlock reaches for the petri dish that Jim knocked over. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here, and I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly runs out of the room, almost in tears.

"I still think he's just creepy," I say.

"Go on, then," Sherlock gestures to his work.

"What?" I ask.

"You know what I do. Off you go," he says.

"No."

"An outside eye, a second opinion. It's very useful to me," Sherlock says, "unless you'd rather continue our previous conversation. We _will _continue it later, but I can postpone an hour or two if you do this."

I glower at him. "Fine." I begin to look at the shoes. "I don't know. They're just a pair of shoes. Trainers."

"Good," Sherlock praises.

"They're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new, except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while," I say. "Uh, they're very eighties. Probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on sparkling form. What else?" Sherlock says.

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's," I say.

"But…?" Sherlock presses on.

I look on the insides of the shoes to find blue smudges. "But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

Sherlock looks at me proudly. "Excellent. What else?"

"Uh, that's it," I say. "How did I do?"

"Well, John; really well," Sherlock says. "I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know…" he picks them up. "The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discolored. Changed the laces three... no, four times. Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" I ask. They're as old as I am.

"They're not retro– they're original," Sherlock says, showing me an image on his phone. "Limited edition: two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

"But there's still mud on them. They look new," I say.

Sherlock looks at them carefully. "Someone's kept them that way. Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it. Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me. South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?"

"Something bad," Sherlock says.

I stiffen. Too many bad things happen to kids.

He looks up from the trainers to look at me. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets…"

Sherlock pauses. "Oh. Carl Powers."

"Who?" I ask.

"Carl Powers, John," Sherlock says. "It's where I began."

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you guys think? I really wanted to make Sherlock find out more about Jason's past when writing about this episode, since it involves bombs, and Jason was blown up. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I'll get to work on the next one soon.**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	15. Chapter 15

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

We're riding in a taxi, which I still think is stupid after the taxi driver guy, while Sherlock explains the story of Carl Powers. "1989, a young kid– champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident." He shows me a newspaper article on his phone. "You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"Technically, I wasn't born then," I say. "But _you _remember."

"Yes," Sherlock says.

"Something unusual about it?" I ask.

"Nobody thought so, nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers," Sherlock says.

"Started young, didn't you?" I ask, though I am not really one to talk considering how old I was when I became Robin.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head," he says.

"What?" I ask.

"His shoes," Sherlock says. "They weren't there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important. He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes…" he looks down at the trainers. "Until now."

Back at the flat, Sherlock sits in the kitchen with the trainers while looking through photographs and newspaper reports about Carl Powers's death in 1989.

I walk in. "Can I help?"

He ignores me.

"I want to help; there are only five hours left," I continue, not wanting some young woman to be blown up. I know how that feels, and it's not fun. Quick, but it still hurts. No one should have to suffer through that.

My phone gets a message.

Any developments?  
Mycroft Holmes

"It's your brother. He's texting _me_ now," I glare down at the phone. "How does he know my number?"

"Must be a root canal," Sherlock says.

"He did say 'national importance'," I say.

Sherlock snorts. "How quaint."

"What is?"

"_You_ are. Queen and country," he says.

"I'm American," I snap. "You can't just ignore it."

"I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now," he says.

"Oh, _great," _I say, knowing what that means.

"Would you rather continue our previous conversation about how you were kidnapped and almost died?" Sherlock asks.

"How long are you going to hold that over my head?" I snap.

"Until you tell me what happened," Sherlock actually looks concerned.

I blink once. "That's not happening."

"It will eventually," he says. "Off you go."

Grumbling, I leave the flat.

* * *

I walk up to Mycroft's office and knock, not really wanting to see him since the guy creeps me out.

He opens the door. "John. How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long. How can I help you?" he directs me to a place I can sit.

"I'd rather stand," I say. "Your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."

Mycroft smiles. "Did he?

"Yes," I lie. "He's starting to investigate now. I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man."

"Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies…" Mycroft says. "Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.

"Right. He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train," I say. Maybe he was running from something, kind of like how I run from my past.

"No," Mycroft says. "He had an Oyster card… but it hadn't been used. There was no ticket on the body."

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" I ask. "That is the question," Mycroft says. "One I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?"

"He's fine. It is going well. He's completely focused on it," I lie.

Mycroft doesn't believe me, no matter how good of a liar I am. He knows his brother too well.

Again, I think about Dick. All the little details about my big brother I had memorized… they way he always smiled and gave me hugs even when I tried to squirm away. Back then, I wasn't as strong, so he could keep me there. Now, he probably couldn't, but sometimes, I actually find myself missing those hugs. They're a kind of contact I know I won't get hurt from.

Dick would never lay a hand on me, and he certainly wouldn't use me like Mycroft is using Sherlock right now.

I turn around and leave the office.

* * *

Back at the flat, Sherlock is still looking through his microscope when Mrs. Hudson comes in with some tea.

Sherlock looks up. "Poison."

"What you going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"Clostridium botulinum!" he slams his hands on the table and Mrs. Hudson runs out of the room. "It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet! Carl Powers!"

"He was murdered," I say darkly. "But how did the poison get administered?"

"Remember the shoelaces?" Sherlock asks. "The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns."

"How come the autopsy didn't pick that up?" I ask, finding myself glad an autopsy was never performed on my own body. Being resurrected would have been a lot more painful them.

"It's virtually undetectable. Nobody would have been looking for it," he says getting onto his website and beginning to type, "But there were still tiny traces of it left. That's why they had to go."

"So how do we let the bomber know…?" I ask.

"Get his attention," Sherlock says, looking at his watch. "Stop the clock."

"The killer kept the shoes all these years," I say. "He's our bomber."

The phone rings. Sherlock immediately picks it up.

"Well done, you. Come and get me," the woman says.  
_  
_The next morning, we are at Lestrade's office. Sherlock stands by the window while I lurk in the corner and Lestrade sits at his desk.

"She lives in Cornwall," Lestrade says. "Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a house. Told her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager."

"And if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off," Sherlock says.

"But what was the point? Why would anyone _do_ this?" Lestrade asks, appalled that someone would do all this, go to all this trouble.

The same reason the Joker does. He wants entertainment from it; he enjoys it. Seeing someone else in pain, hearing them scream and moan in pain, making it _fun _by acting all friendly about it… it makes me sick.

"Oh- I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored." Sherlock says.

Sherlock, you don't get bored that way! When you're bored you shoot the wall, you don't bomb people!

The pink phone gets another alert. "You have one new message."

This time there are four pips.

"First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second," Sherlock says.

There's a new photograph. "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll see if it's been reported," Lestrade says, but Donovan comes in first.

"Freak, it's for you," she says.

Sherlock takes the phone. "Hello?"

"It's okay that you've gone to the police," the a man's voice says. "But don't rely on them. Clever you, guessing about Carl Powers. I never liked him. Carl laughed at me, so I stopped him laughing."

"And you've stolen another voice, I presume," Sherlock says.

"This is about you and me."

"Who _are_ you? What's that noise?"

"The sounds of life, Sherlock. But don't worry… I can soon fix that. You solved my last puzzle in nine hours. This time you have eight."

Lestrade comes back in. "We've found it."

* * *

At the river, Lestrade starts telling Sherlock about a man whose car was found abandoned here.

"You're still hanging round him," Donovan says to me.

"So?"

"Opposites attract, I suppose," she says.

I glare at her.

"You should get yourself a hobby," she says. "Stamps, maybe. Model trains. Safer."

"Do I look like someone who'd play with trains and stamps?" I snap at her.

She shoots me a look and goes to stand by Lestrade.

After Lestrade explains a few more things about the crime scene to Sherlock, Sherlock goes to talk to the man's wife. I follow him.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock asks.

She nods. "Sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen."

"We're not from the police," I say.

Sherlock extends his hand to her. Sherlock Holmes. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um… we grew up together."

"I don't think he ever mentioned you."

Sherlock is feigning tears now. "Oh, he _must_ have done. This is horrible, isn't it?"

I look away. This is getting too sappy for me.

"I mean, I just can't believe it. I only saw him the other day. Same old Ian. Not a care in the world," Sherlock says.

"Sorry, but my husband has been depressed for months. Who _are_ you?" she says.

"Really strange that he hired a car. Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?" Sherlock asks, fake tears running down his cheeks.

"No, it isn't. He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all," she says.

"Oh, well, that was Ian! That was Ian all over!" Sherlock says.

"No it wasn't."

Sherlock's false persona fades and he looks at her intrigued. "Wasn't it? Interesting."

He begins to walk away. I follow him.

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you, kind of like you do every time I mention your past, which we're still going to talk about later, by the way. Past tense, did you notice? I referred to her husband in the past tense. She joined in. Bit premature; they've only just found the car." Sherlock tells me.

"You think she murdered her husband?" I ask.

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make," Sherlock says.

We walk past Donovan. "Fishing!" she yells. "Try fishing!"

"Shut up!" I yell at her, and then turn to Sherlock. "Where now?"

"Janus Cars," he shows me a business card. "Just found this in the glove compartment, and… is that a white strand of hair on your head?"

"What?" _Oh, crap. _I've been so preoccupied helping Sherlock with cases; I forgot to dye the white streak in my hair black.

"The roots are white, but only on the front of your head," Sherlock begins to touch them. What is it with him and personal space?

"Leave my hair alone!" I jerk away.

"They're not gray hair, and you're only twenty, so why do you have a white streak?"

"I was born with it, and I decided to dye it," I snap.

"I don't believe you," Sherlock says.

"Can you give it a rest?!"

"No," he says. "We have another thing to add to our list of things we'll talk about later. Come on."

* * *

We visit Janus cars and talk to a man named Ewert, who Sherlock deduces as a liar by managing to get a look in his wallet after asking him if he knew Mr. Monkford.

Sherlock gets contacted by the bomber after that. "The clue's in the name. Janus Cars."

"Why would you be giving me a clue?"

"Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were _made_ for each other, Sherlock." _Damn, this guy sounds like the Joker and Batman._

"Then talk to me in your own voice," Sherlock says.

"Patience." The line goes dead.

Back at Monkford's car, Sherlock asks. "How much blood was on that seat, would you say?"

"How much? About a pint."

"Not 'about'," Sherlock says. "_Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's but it's been frozen. There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats."

"_Who_ did?"

"Janus Cars. The clue's in the name," Sherlock says.

"The god with two faces," I say, remember learning that in my mythology classes.

"Exactly," Sherlock says. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem – money troubles, bad marriage, whatever – Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble – financial, at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

"So where is he?"

"Columbia," Sherlock says. "Mr. Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Columbian peso note in his wallet. Quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about the cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sun bed. That, plus his arm. Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Columbia. Mrs. Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars. She's in on it too. Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best."

He turns to look at me. "_We_ need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved," he begins to lead me away. "I am on _fire!"_

* * *

The next morning, we are back at 221B, and I remember we are getting closer to my death date. It's actually just in a couple days. With this case going on, I had actually managed to forget about it for a while.

"Has it occurred to you-" I start.

"Probably," Sherlock says.

"No," I continue. "Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes– it's all meant for you." Kind of like how whenever the Joker stirs up trouble for Batman, he always makes sure he knows that it is him.

"Yes, I know," Sherlock says.

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?" He's Sherlock's Joker.

"Perhaps." The pink gets another message. Two pips, and a picture of a middle-aged woman.

"That could be anybody," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, it could, but lucky for you, I pay attention to the news."

I get up and turn on the news channel.

The phone rings. An old woman's voice speaks. "This one… is a bit defective. Sorry. She's blind. This is… a funny one. I'll give you… twelve hours."

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock says.

_Because he likes it. He likes to mess with you, Sherlock._

"I like… to watch you dance."

The footage on the news reads Make-over Queen Connie Prince dead at 48_._ Continuing into the sudden death of the popular TV personality, Connie Prince. Miss Prince, famous for her makeover programs, was found dead two days ago by her brother in the house they shared in Hampstead…

* * *

At Bart's morgue, we examine the body of Connie Prince. Sherlock finds a deep wound on her hand from a rusty nail.

"Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream, good night Vienna," Sherlock says.

"Something's wrong with this picture. It can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong. John?"

"Yeah?"

"The cut on her hand: it's deep; would have bled a lot, right?" Sherlock asks me.

I nod.

"But the wound's clean, _very_ clean, and fresh. How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

"Eight to ten days," I say. "The cut was made later."

"After she was dead?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock nods. "Must have been. The only question is: how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" he turns to me. "You want to help, right?"

I nod, not wanting another person to die, especially not by a bomb.

"Connie Prince's background," he says. "Family history, everything. Give me data."

I nod. Bruce used to have me do that for him sometimes while working on cases; I got pretty good at him.

I exit the room, going to Kenny Prince's house.

* * *

"We're devastated. Of _course_ we are," Kenny tells me.

His butler, Raoul comes in. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No, thanks," I say.

"Raoul is my rock. I don't think I could have managed," Kenny says. "We didn't always see eye to eye, but my sister was very dear to me."

A hairless cat climbs into my lap. I immediately shove it off. I don't have a problem with animals, but now is not a good time to have a cat in my face.

"Oh, she was adored," Kenny continues. "I've seen her take girls who looked like the back end of Route masters and turn them into princesses. Still, it's a relief in a way to know that she's beyond this veil of tears."

The cat climbs back into my lap, purring crazily. Giving in, I begin to stroke it. "Absolutely."

"It's more common than people think," I tell him. "The tetanus is in the soil, people cut themselves on rose bushes, garden forks, that sort of thing. If left untreated."

Kenny plops down beside me, distraught. "I don't know what I'm going to _do_ now."

"Right," I say, feeling a little nervous to have him this close to me.

" I mean, she's left me this place, which is lovely…" Kenny says. Really? "But it's not the same without her."

"That's why my paper wanted to get the, the full story straight from the horse's mouth. You sure it's not too soon?" I ask.

"No," he says. "You fire away."

And with that, I use all my training in lying and subtle interrogation to begin to get the information I need.

After that I call Sherlock.

* * *

After Sherlock talks to Kenny, he deduces that Raoul is the killer and tells the bomber._  
_

The next morning, we see the news about the bomber killing that woman by blowing up the block of flats.

"_He_ certainly gets about," I snarl.

"Well, obviously I lost that round," Sherlock says. "Although technically I did solve the case." He mutes the volume. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him. Just once, he put himself in the firing line. Usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no one ever has direct contact."

"So, did he arrange Connie Prince's murder then? People come to him wanting their crimes fixed up, like booking a holiday?" this guy sounds like someone who belongs in Arkham.

"Novel," Sherlock says. "Taking his time this time."

"Anything on the Carl Powers case?" I ask.

"Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection," Sherlock says.

"Maybe the killer was older than Carl?" I suggest.

"The thought had occurred," Sherlock says.

So, do you think he wants to be caught or something, playing this game with you now?" I ask.

"I think he wants to be distracted," Sherlock says.

"You know, there are innocent lives at stake," I snap.

"Yeah, well, will caring about them help save them?" he questions irately.

I glare at him.

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

I wonder if Bruce feels that way. If he only solves crime because of what happened to him in his past, or if he actually cares about the civilians… if he actually cares about me, or Dick, or Babs…

"I've disappointed you," Sherlock says.

"No, you haven't," I say. "You just remind of someone."

"_Don't_ make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, not even those vigilantes up in the states, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them," Sherlock says.

"I never said I believe in heroes, Sherlock," I say. I really don't. After being what most people consider a 'hero', I know that what we do isn't heroic. Too many people die.

Before he can say anything else, the pink phone rings. "Excellent!" Sherlock picks it up. "View of the Thames. South Bank. Somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers; I'll look online…"

I just glare at him.

"Oh, you're angry with me, so you won't help," Sherlock says.

"I'm always angry, Sherlock," I say. "You've just made me angrier, because you're so much like-"

"Like who?" he looks intrigued.

"No one you've met or are ever going to meet so it doesn't matter," I snap, picking up a newspaper, which I begin to search through the articles of, like he said to.

* * *

Sherlock drags us down to South Bank between Waterloo and Southwark Bridge, where Lestrade has found a body.

Sherlock thinks it is connected to the bomber, but he hasn't been in touch.

I tell them that the man's been dead about twenty-four hours, and Lestrade and I both agree that he asphyxiated, didn't drown, because there's not enough water in his lungs.

"There's quite a bit of bruising around the nose and mouth. More bruises here and here," I point out, remembering learning that in my training with B to determine how villain's victims died.

Sherlock looks at some of the red marks on the body. "Fingertips." Then he looks back at his phone. "He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data. But I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer painting's a fake.

We need to identify the corpse. Find out about his friends and associates…"

"What painting?" Lestrade asks. "What are you on about?"

"It's all over the place," Sherlock says. "Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago; now it's turned up. Worth thirty million pounds.

"Okay. So what has _that_ got to do with the stiff?" Lestrade asks.

"_Everything_. Have you ever heard of the Golem?" Sherlock grins.

"It's a horror story, isn't it?" I ask.

"Jewish folk story," Sherlock says. "A gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin, real name Oskar Dzundza, one of the deadliest assassins in the world._ That_ is his trademark style.." Man made of clay… sounds like Clayface to me. _Great._ "This is a hit. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands.

Sherlock explains what it has to do with the painting; it's a fake, and the man was a gallery attendant that worked for the museum's owner and found out it was fake, so he hired the Golem to off him. Sounds kind of like the League of Assassins.

"I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character," Lestrade says.

"Pointless," Sherlock says. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" Lestrade asks.

Sherlock grins. "Me."_  
_

* * *

As we head to the art gallery, Sherlock is upset about the bomber breaking his pattern and not calling.

He also goes and gives money to a homeless girl, and when I ask him what it was about he merely said: investing.

Sherlock has me stay at the art gallery to learn everything I can about the gallery attendant.

I end up hearing an interesting message for him from a woman named Professor Cairns, and then I go down to Westie's flat to talk to his fiancé, Lucy. I end up meeting her brother, Joe, who I find really suspicious. We pretty much get into a glaring contest with one another.

That evening, Sherlock and I meet up. "Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art."

"Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?" Sherlock asks as we head towards the homeless girl he gave money to earlier.

"Nope," I say.

The girl hands Sherlock a piece of paper. "Fortunately, I _haven't_ been idle."

"He did get a message at his flat from a Professor Cairns," I tell Sherlock as we walk.

"This way," Sherlock says. "Homeless network. Really is indispensable. My eyes and ears all over the city."

Suddenly, from the shadows, a man's shadow forms on the wall as he begins to stand. He has to be at least seven, maybe eight, feet tall.

"Come on!" Sherlock calls.

I tear my gun from its holster as we run, but the man hurries down another tunnel and gets into a car, which speeds off.

"No, no, no, _no_! It'll take us _weeks_ to find him again!" Sherlock cries, outraged.

"Or not. I have an idea where he might be going," I say, replacing my gun in its holster.

"What?" Sherlock looks shocked.

"Don't look at me like that," I snap. "I told you; someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be _that_ many Professor Cairns in London. Come on."

* * *

We find Professor Cairns at a planetarium, watching the footage about the solar system when she is attacked by the Golem.

Sherlock and I run in.

I aim my gun at the Golem, while Sherlock yells, "_Golem!"_

The Golem looks up in surprise, and then snaps the woman's neck, dropping her to the ground, dead, and then runs off, just missing a few of the bullets fired from my gun.

I dash off around to get to a place where I can see the Golem better so I can shoot him.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock yells at him, only to be scooped by the Golem, who grabs his face in one hand and grips his neck in the other, suffocating in the Golem's grasp.

I jump out at him. "Golem! Let him go, or I _will_ kill you, and I will _enjoy _it," I snarl viciously, cocking the trigger of my gun.

The Golem lunges at me, practically tackling me, but he ends up dropping Sherlock, so I guess I got what I wanted. Sherlock attempts to have a fistfight with the giant man, who I am wondering if he might be a Meta, and I launch myself onto his back. He begins to shake me, until he finally manages to get me to slam onto the ground.

I am about to get up, when the Golem throws Sherlock into me, and rushes through the doors.

Sherlock slams his hand into the ground in outrage, just as an explosion in the documentary on the screen behind us goes off.

* * *

**AN: This was a really long chapter, so I shortened it up a bit by cutting back on a little of the dialogue. I hope you don't mind; I am assuming you've seen the episodes after all. I'll get to work on the next chapter as soon as possible. I hope you enjoyed this one, and I would appreciate some reviews.**

**Thanks for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	16. Chapter 16

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

We go down to the art gallery where Sherlock accuses the painting of being a fake, but the bomber isn't responding.

"Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed," Sherlock says, but the phone remains silent. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

After a moment, a little boy's voice comes over the phone. "Ten…"

_No, no, not a child. _I hate it when bad things happen to children, and now this kid is going to be blown up just like I was. there's no way Sherlock will figure this out in ten seconds!

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time," Sherlock says. "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? _How?_" he turns to the woman running the art gallery. "This kid will die. _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me! _No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out. Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face…"

The boy is at six.

"Woodbridge knew, but _how_?" Sherlock asks, still staring at the painting. "Oh!"

The boy's at four.

"In the planetarium! You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"

The boy's at three.

"What is?" I ask as Sherlock types into his phone. Now is really not the time for him to marvel over how 'brilliant' and 'gorgeous' it is.

Sherlock snatches the pink phone from me and yells, "The Van Buren Supernova!"  
There's silence for a moment, and then the boy's voice says, "Please. Is somebody there?"

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. "There you go," Sherlock says to Lestrade. "Go find out where he is and pick him up." He looks at me. "The Van Buren Supernova, so-called. Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight. So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?"

I let out my breath, relieved that the boy is safe, rather than blown sky high like I was, and then my phone gets a text.

My patience is  
wearing thin.  
Mycroft Holmes

* * *

Today is my death day, but I have barely had time to think about it while helping Sherlock.

How, I am down at Battersea to investigate Westie's murder.

I talk with a guard down there, who has a hatred for jumpers of all kinds, especially the ones that jump in front of trains.

He says the man's head was smashed in, but there wasn't much blood.

Once the man is gone, I crouch down by the tracks. "West wasn't killed here," I murmur.

I sense and hear Sherlock approach me from behind with my Bat-training, but any normal person, he would have snuck up on. "Points." I spring to my feet to look at him. "Knew you'd get there eventually. West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

"You've been following me this whole time, haven't you?"

"Since the start," Sherlock replies. "You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" he starts to walk away. "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

We walk down the street to an unknown destination, or at least it's unknown to me, since Sherlock never tells me where we're going. "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know. I've met them," I say. They almost have as much security as B does.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here," Sherlock says, going up to a flat called 21A.

"Sherlock, what if someone's home?" I ask. It's my death day; I both do and do not feel like shooting someone, if that makes sense, so if anyone's there, and we get in a fight… well we may or may not have a dead body on our hands.

"There isn't," Sherlock says, picking the lock.

I remember learning lock picking, back before I was even taken in by B. I almost got caught for breaking and entering several times in my youth.

I follow Sherlock inside. "Where are we?"

"You mean West's fiancé's brother?" I ask, remembering the name from earlier.

"_He_ stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock says.

We crouch by the windowsill, finding some blood-red spots. "Let's ask him why, shall we?"

I hear the front door slam and immediately draw my gun.

I sneak silently towards the door of the living room, and Joe sees me. He lifts up his bike, as if to throw it at me.

I point my gun at him. "Don't." I growl like B, and glare like him too.

We've caught him._  
_

* * *

"Why did you kill him?" I snarl once we have the guy sitting down on his sofa.

"It was an accident," Joes says.

Sherlock snorts in disbelief while I continue to glare at the guy.

"I _swear_ it was," Joe says.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock accuses.

"I started dealing drugs. I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I don't know – I don't know how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands – _serious_ people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job," Joe says.

"Did you ever deal to kids?" I interrupt him.

"What?" he looks confused.

"Your drug dealing; did you ever deal to kids?"

"No, no," he says quickly. "Anyway, usually Westie was so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up. He told me about these missile plans– beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and whatnot. And there it was, and I thought… well, I thought it could be worth a fortune. It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered. Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew. I _was_ gonna call an ambulance, but it was too late. I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock says. "Carrying Andrew West way away from here. His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

"Do you still have it? The memory stick?" I ask.

Joe nods.

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind," Sherlock says, as Joe does. "Distraction over, the game continues. Five pips, remember, John? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

That evening, while I sit and think about crowbars and clowns and explosives, Sherlock yells at the TV as he guesses things about the episodes.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" I ask, trying to distract myself from the phantom feeling of the crowbar.

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood, again," Sherlock says.

I sigh, not being able to sake the memories of my long, drawn-out death.

The crowbar flying.

'_Wow, that looked like it really hurt."_

'_Whoa, now, hang on._

_That looked like it hurt a lot more_.'

The clown grinning at me as he raises the crowbar again.

'_So let's try and clear this up, okay, pumpkin? What hurts more? A? Or B? Forehand? Or backhand?'_

The sound of him cackling, the searing, fiery pain in my chest.

'_A little louder, lamb chop. I think you may have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory.'_

I'd spat blood in his face. He'd retaliated by slamming my head into the ground and wiping the blood from his cheek.

'_Now, that was rude. The first boy blunder had some manners. I suppose I'm going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps.'_

He raised the crowbar again.

'_Nah, I'm just gonna keep hitting you with this crowbar.'_

And then he continued to laugh for the next couple of hours as he smashed that thing into my body, hitting everywhere it would hurt the most: my chest, ribs, stomach, face, arms, legs… until finally, he must have gotten bored.

'_Okay, kiddo, I got to go. It's been fun though, right? Well, maybe a smidge more fun for me than you. I'm just guessing since you're being awful quiet. Anyway, be a good boy. Finish your homework and be in bed by nine. And, hey… please tell the big man I said, "Hello."_

Then he left.

I remember stepping through the cuffs to get them in front of me, even though it hurt, and then trying to stand, only to fall right back to the ground, and crawl to the exit.

The door was locked though… and then I noticed the bomb. Only a few seconds left.

I watched it for a moment, and then I closed my eyes, and it went off.

I felt one last searing pain, and then nothing.

"I'm going out; need some air," I say.

Sherlock nods. "All right."

I head outside the door, padding down the street and through some creepy dark allies.

What are you supposed to do on the anniversary of your own murder?

I do think at least one of the goals is to not be murdered again, but when ten guys jump out at me, I am starting to think fate _really _hates me.

I immediately fight back, using the martial arts I learned during and after my time as Robin, but I am seriously outnumbered, and left my gun back at the flat.

I do have one of my batarangs though.

I take it out and stab one of them.

By the end of our fight, I have killed five of them, but the other five still caught me once they started jamming several sedatives into my neck.

After that, everything went black.

* * *

Sherlock's POV

After John left, I texted the bomber to meet me at the pool where Carl Powers died at midnight.

I am there now. "Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present. Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance– all to distract me from _this." _I hold up the memory stick, turning in a little circle, and then the a door opens, and John walks in.

I look at him, shocked.

"Evening."

My hand holding the memory stick lowers in disbelief. John…?

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" he asks.

"John. What the hell...?" I say, my voice soft and surprised.

"Bet you never saw _this_ coming," he says.

I begin to walk towards him, the shock and bewilderment all over my face, despair consuming me. I thought John was my friend… my first and only friend.

I stop as he unzips his jacket… and reveals a bomb strapped to his chest. A sniper laser begins to hover over the bomb right on his chest.

"What... would you like me... to make him say... next?" he asks, but they aren't his words.

I continue to walk towards him, and speak to whoever is controlling him. "Stop it."

"Nice touch, this," John speaks for the man. "The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him. I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

I am honestly surprised how calm John is through all this, but at the same time, I am not. He always seemed so closed off, like the only emotion he could feel was anger. I managed to get him to feel a few more at times, like when I saved him from the Black Lotus, but that was one of the only occasions.

Being this calm… it takes training.

"Who _are_ you?" I ask, looking around for the bomber. He has to be here somewhere.

A door opens and a male voice speaks. "I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

I turn towards the new arrival, and see Molly's boyfriend, Jim.

He strides along towards the two of us. "Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

I aim the gun I brought at him. "Both."

Jim looks at me, unafraid. "Jim Moriarty. Hi!"

I stare at him.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital? Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that _was_ rather the point."

I look at the sniper laser on my friend's chest.

"Don't be silly. Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty," he says. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see… like you!"

" 'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister?' 'Dear Jim. Please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?'" I quote. "Consulting criminal. Brilliant."

Moriarty smiles proudly. "Isn't it? No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

"_I_ did," I say, continuing to aim the gun at his chest.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way," Moriarty says.

"Thank you," I say.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment," he says.

"Yes you did."

Jim shrugs. "Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting is over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now! I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off. Although I have _loved_ this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"People have died," I say.

"That's what people _do!" _he screams.

"I _will_ stop you," I say.

"No you won't," Moriarty says.

I look at John. "You all right?"

John says nothing.

Moriarty walks up behind him and grasps his shoulders. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

I notice John's amazingly frightening glare come onto his face as he growls at Moriarty.

"So _animalistic," _Moriarty says. "Where'd you find him; a junkyard?"

"A college actually," I reply, still concerned for my friend. I hold out the memory stick to him. "Take it."

"Huh? Oh! That!" Moriarty walks forward and reaches for the stick, looking at it. "The missile plans! Boring! I could have got them anywhere." He tosses it in the pool.

The next thing I know, John has launched himself at Moriarty, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest.

I step back in surprise, but keep the gun aimed at Moriarty.

"Sherlock, run!" John yells at me. He looks like he's going to snap Moriarty's neck any moment.

"_Good_! _Very_ good." Moriarty laughs in delight.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John snarls savagely, the look in his eyes like something that rose up out of hell.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets," Moriarty says to me.

John pulls Moriarty closer, so the bomb is touching him.

"They're so touchingly loyal. But, _oops!" _he looks at me. "You've rather shown your hand there, Mr. Watson."

Another laser points at my forehead. Damn, he is two steps ahead of us.

"Gotcha!" Moriarty says in a singsong tone.

John releases him grudgingly. "I will make you suffer one day for this," he snarls at Moriarty.

"Considering who you are, I don't doubt it," Moriarty says, and then he turns towards me. "Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to _you_?"

"Oh, let me guess. I get killed," I say, sounding bored.

Jim grimaces. "Kill? No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway some day. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No-no-no-no-no. If you don't stop prying, I'll _burn_ you. I'll burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," I say.

"But we both know that's not _quite_ true," Moriarty says. "Well, I'd better be off. Well, so nice to have had a proper chat."

"What if I was to shoot you now, right now?" I ask, still aiming the gun at him.

"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock; really I would. And just a teensy bit disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long," he begins to turn away, heading towards the door he came through earlier. "Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. Catch… you… later." The door closes.

Once I am sure he is gone, I put the gun down on the floor and lunge towards my only friend, beginning to tear the bomb off his chest.

He looks startled by the sudden contact, but when _isn't _John startled by contact.

Honestly, the man hates it more than anyone I have ever met. It's actually kind of… sad. "All right?"

He doesn't reply, the look in his eyes distant.

"Are you all right?" I ask urgently. What if he was emotionally traumatized, again? I already know he was held hostage once before, what would a second time do to him?

"Yeah-yeah, I'm fine," he gets out, still looking distant, though not afraid, as if he was remembering something, and whatever this something was, it wasn't good.

I have unfastened the vest now, and pull off the jacket and the vest at the same time, tossing them across the room.

The younger man pulls the earpiece Moriarty used to control him out of his ear, and leans back against the wall, not in shock, but still… _off._

"Are _you_ okay?" he looks so calm for someone who was just kidnapped and almost blown up, as if he has had training for it.

"Me? Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. Fine," I say, staring at him wide-eyed and breathless. "That… _thing_ that you, that you did; that, um… you offered to do. That was, um… good." No one has ever cared about me enough to risk their life for me before.

"I'm glad no one saw that," he murmurs.

"Hmm?" I ask, confused.

"You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool," he mutters.

I shrug, and then look at him with a grin, relieved we are both alive.

He chuckles a little, pushing himself up off the wall and grabbing the leather jacket I tore off him. He really loves that thing.

And then the sniper lasers are back on our chests again.

"Shit," John murmurs.

Moriarty comes back in the room. "Sorry, boys! I'm soooooooo changeable! It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my _only_ weakness. You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I _would_ try to convince you but… everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

I turn to look at him. "Probably my answer has crossed yours." I point the gun back at him, and then lower it down to the bomb vest.

My eyes find my friend quickly, and I see him staring at the bomb, but not with the fear most would have, rather a sort of… acceptance. His eyes are narrowed, but not in his usual glare, rather as if he is merely waiting for it to go off… and he almost doesn't care if it does or not.

If we live through this, I am grilling him about that.

I look over at Moriarty, my eyes locking with his.

He smiles vindictively.

* * *

**AN: Dun, dun, dun! I know, I'm so mean for leaving you hanging there, but hey, I love cliffhangers. **

**I look forward to writing the next chapter; please review!**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or Sherlock_**

Jason's POV

* * *

Sherlock aims his pistol at the bomb vest, the lasers still on the two of us.

Moriarty and Sherlock are staring each other down fearlessly. It reminds me of how B was never afraid of any of his opponents while facing them, even though he once told me that there was a part of him that did fear them.

I didn't believe him until now.

I stare at the bomb vest. We're going to die… Sherlock for the first time, me for the second time.

I don't want him to _feel _that. The pain of being blown up. I've felt that before; it _hurts. _

You may think it is over quickly, but it still hurts.

I don't want Sherlock, or _anyone _for that matter, to experience that pain.

Suddenly, some weird song begins playing.

I look up. _What the hell?_

Sherlock stares at Moriarty, his eyes darting around, confused as to where the music is coming from.

Moriarty sighs in exasperation. "Do you mind if I get that?"

"No, no, please," Sherlock says nonchalantly, as if there _isn't _a bomb a few feet from us. "You've got the rest of your life."

Moriarty takes the phone from his pocket and answers it. "Hello? Yes, of _course_ it is. What do you want?"

He mouths "sorry" to Sherlock, who mouths "oh, it's fine", back at him.

I stare at them. How in the hell can they act so _casually _around each other? Granted, I am used to only being in situations like this either alone, or with a man who dresses up as a bat and spends most of his time brooding in a dark cave.

Moriarty rolls his eyes, turning away from a moment.

When he turns back, I wouldn't have been surprised if lasers launched from his eyes he looked so pissed. "SAY THAT AGAIN!"

Sherlock frowns, watching intently.

"Say that again, and know that if you're lying to me, I will find you and I will skin you," Moriarty says spitefully.

Sherlock looks at me, as if searching for my opinion on this matter.

I personally just think Moriarty has cracked, and I'll gladly take him to Arkham. Then again, if I manage to beat him up and get him to Gotham city, I'm pretty sure Bruce will notice a random vigilante dragging in a new psychopath for his kennel of freaks.

"Wait," Moriarty says into the phone. He lowers it and walks forward.

Sherlock's eyes dart towards the bomb vest anxiously and he adjusts his grip on his gun as the madman comes closer.

Moriarty gazes at the vest thoughtfully, and then looks up at Sherlock. "Sorry. Wrong day to die."

"Oh. Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock's voice is casual and sarcastic.

Moriarty ignores him and begins to walk away. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock."

He stalks back out the door he originally came through, and then lifts the phone to his ear. "So if you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

He closes the door.

I stand up straight blinking. "What happened there?"

"Someone changed his mind," Sherlock says. "The question is: who?"

* * *

The next day, Sherlock has being eyeing me for a while, a look of concern in his eyes every time he looks at me.

He thinks I don't notice.

"All right, why are you staring at me?" I ask.

"I'm not staring at you," Sherlock defends.

"Yes, you are," I say.

He sighs. "Last night, John, when Moriarty came back and was going to blow us up… most men would panic."

"So… what's your point?" I ask.

"You just gazed at the bomb, a look of… acceptance on your face," he says. "You had no problem giving in just like that. Why?"

"Sherlock… I'm not afraid to die," I say. _Not when it's already happened. _"The only slight concern I had was for _you."_

"Me?" he looks shocked.

"Well, yeah, what would this world be without your massive intellect?" I ask, smirking. _I didn't want you to feel what I did… what it feels like to blow up. To burn… _I leave those words unsaid, but they're there, even if he doesn't know it.

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but there's a knock on the door.

He straightens up and head to the door, glancing back at me once. "Right, well, let's see what we've got, shall we?"

* * *

**AN: I am so sorry I haven't gotten this up sooner! I have been busy all weekend, and have been so tired. All week at school I felt like a zombie and just wanted to fall asleep in the middle of the day, and I've been sick all week., yet I still went to school for fear of missing something important. Don't worry though; I never intend to quit this story. I am going to see it through to its end. We're officially at season two, which means that soon, after the finale, we will see this story's take on the events of Batman: Under the Red Hood with Sherlock. Also, the chapters are not usually going to be this short; I just really wanted to get this up for you guys.**

**Thanks for reading! :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	18. AN

**AN: Okay, I am very sorry this is not a chapter, but I have some new ideas I am planning to introduce into the next chapter that I wanted to share with you before I write it. I am going to start using some of the arcs from the comics and the New 52, to go along with Batman: Under the Red Hood. I have gotten some requests to make my own cases and have other scenes so we can flush out a bit more of Jason's personality, which I have been having trouble doing since I feel like if I edit the script too much, it could affect the outcome of the case, so I am going to start up a new plot that has quite a bit to do with some of the events of The Red Hood and the Outlaws. I liked the story arc there, where Jason got training from Talia Al Ghul, the League of Assassins, and Ducra and the All-Caste. I also love it when he uses the Blades of All, which I intend to add to his weaponry in the story, and the interactions he has with his old mentors from the League and Ducra. I think it will help push the story along if I bring in other stuff from the comics for this story, and will help bring some of Jason's personality through. I feel like a lot of the stuff Sherlock says to him should really be pissing him off more than it does, and I want to go deeper into their friendship and their interactions with one another. I also am going to include more about how Jason was resurrected, because I have been reading about it more and more, and am wondering if I should make it so he came back to life and clawed his way out of his coffin, and _then _Talia threw him in the Lazarus Pit and started getting him training after he realized he was not avenged, though the story is going to stay with his death as how I have already written it, like in the movie Batman: Under the Red Hood, without his mother being there also. I kind of like it better when it is just Jason in the warehouse when he is killed by the Joker.**

**I promise I will get the next chapter up as soon as I possibly can, and if you have any preferences about things you think I should include in the story, I would love to hear from you!**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	19. Chapter 18

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, Sherlock, or the Red Hood and the Outlaws, which I draw off of in this chapter to help write a new story that is not in the Sherlock TV show._**

Jason's POV

* * *

_One day your heart will shine brighter than the dark fury inside of you. And that day will be _glorious…

Ducra's words stick with me, even though I left the All Caste two years ago, just like I left the League of Assassins. I remember everything Ducra said to me, every lesson she had to teach…

But I do not believe her. I do not believe that one day I will overcome the rage that exists inside me. I told her that all I really want is to kill the man who murdered me, kill the Joker, and make Batman suffer for not avenging my murder.

Batman was my guardian, my protector… I can forgive him for not getting there in time to save me, but I cannot forgive him for refusing to avenge my death.

Maybe I am more like the League of Assassins than I want to be. I left because I did not see the way they were killing as justice… and in the end, justice is all I want. It is something I have never really gotten, since my murder was not avenged.

As long as that clown breathes, I know I will never rest, but little do I know, that there is something a thousand times more important just around the corner, waiting for not just me, but also Sherlock, because the idiotic sociopath is not going to let me just run off on my own.

He can't resist a good case.

* * *

_That night, I dream about Dick. One of the first nights I was out as Robin without Batman, he sent Nightwing with me._

_Let's just say, Golden Boy and I did not get off to a great start, though looking back on things, I wish we did._

_He is my big brother, and even if he did not avenge my murder either, I regret every moment we fought._

_That night, he had been trying to help me, give me pointers._

"_Patience isn't just a _virtue, _Jason," _he'd said to me. _"It can save your life. You _wait _for the _right _moment, but at the same time, it's important you don't_ hesitate _when it arrives. _Instinct_ can't really be taught. It's something you have to just _know. _But with a lot of _practice, _you might get-"_

_I'd cut him off to start yelling at him not to tell me what to do, but right now, I think that back then, I really needed that lesson._

_I rushed after the Joker without Batman… I didn't hesitate, but it was not the right moment. I should have listened to Dick._

_I should have listened to him on a lot of things… and now I'll never see him again, not until I am back in Gotham for revenge, and then he won't see me as his little brother anymore, he'll see me as the monster I really am. _

_The monster Talia and the League tried to create, the monster Ducra tried to stop._

_The monster I have been since my murder, and possibly was before even that._

* * *

Sherlock's POV

John and I spent the whole day talking to useless clients that had absolutely no interesting cases to share with us. They were stupid and annoying; a complete waste of time.

It is somewhere around midnight now. Usually, I go to sleep, but without a good case to solve today, I don't feel it in me.

John, however, usually _does _stay awake. I have a feeling he is an insomniac, though I am still trying to figure out _why. _Is he afraid to sleep? Does he just not want to? Has he gotten so used to not sleeping that he no longer feels the urge? All these questions float through my mind as I head into the living room to talk to my skull, and promptly find the younger man asleep on the couch.

I stare at him for a moment. It does not look like he _meant _to fall asleep. He isn't quite lying down, but is kind of slouched over, and has a book wide open on his chest. It has some morbid title that I do not take interest in, as it will probably be something I delete later since I am taking in so many other more important things right now.

I have never seen my best and only friend sleep before. Curiosity begins to build within me as I watch him, deducing as much as possible.

His breathing is slow and even, something I have never seen in John before, and his face lacks its usual scowl, making him look so much younger, as if he were still a teenager rather than an adult.

He does not look so worn down either. I had not quite noticed it before, since he is so hostile, but there is indeed a heavy weight that usually bears down on his shoulders that is absent right now.

He murmurs in his sleep, and I strain to hear what he says. _"I'm listening, Dick."_

I take a step closer, wondering who Dick is. Judging by the way he said it, it was not an insult, but rather a name. John has not mentioned having any family or friends, so I am immediately intrigued to find out who this person is.

Before I can come any closer, John's blue eyes snap open and he jerks to a sitting position, staring at me.

I stare back calmly, not ashamed at all that I was caught watching him, even though most people do not notice when I spy on them, let alone when they are asleep.

"Sherlock?" he stares at me. "What are you doing?"

"I have never seen you sleep before," I say.

"So, what, that makes you want to watch?" he raises an eyebrow, the look in his eyes distrusting.

"It is interesting to observe the habits of someone who rarely sleeps," I defend. "Who is Dick?"

His eyes go wide. "What?"

"In your sleep, you mentioned someone named Dick," I say. "Now, were you insulting someone? Because it did not sound like it. It rather sounded like you were saying someone's name."

"I don't know anyone named Dick." He is an amazing liar; pretty much 99% of people would have bought that. I fall in the 1% category though.

"You're lying," I say. "Who is Dick?"

He glares daggers at me. "Sherlock-" and then he breaks off, staring into the corner of the room.

I turn to look, but see absolutely nothing that is not usually there. "What is it?" I ask, noticing how his expression is mingling between curiosity, surprise, and recognition.

He gives his head a shake. "Nothing. I'm going out."

"At midnight?" I ask, not liking the idea of him out there alone, considering the last time I let him just walk out of here late at night, Moriarty kidnapped him.

"I like being out at midnight," he says, grabbing his leather jacket and exiting through the door, closing it behind him.

Not about to stop pestering him, or let my only friend walk off into what could possibly be a dangerous situation, I get up and begin to follow, though I intend to do so in secret for a while. I am going to find out who Dick is, and what he saw in the corner.

* * *

I meet up with her in an alleyway a few blocks away from the flat. She gazes at me with her glowing, pupil-less black eyes, her white hair and pale skin contrasting against her completely black suit.

Her hair dangles down in several braids fairer than snow, and her lips are so light they are practically colorless. In the moonlight, she looks ethereal, as if she belongs in some distant spirit world.

"You were the _last _person I expected to see again," I say to her, gazing at her as she leans back against the wall of the alleyway, standing straight, but with a bend in one of her knees. "What's up, Essence?"

"There have been several murders recently," she says, her voice mystic and otherworldly, as if she does not belong on this world, but not in any of the planets far from earth either. "Where organs have been taken from living bodies."

"Seriously?" I raise my eyebrows at her, running a hand through my black hair. "You came all this way to regale me with an _urban legend?"_

I am about to walk away, when she calls, "there's more, Jason."

I turn back, gazing at her intensely with dark blue eyes. "With you there always is, Essence. Don't fall off your broomstick on the way home."

I continue to walk away. "These missing organs were removed years _before _the victims died," her voice calls, and I freeze, still not turning back, but not leaving anymore. "There were no incisions."

I look back at her. "But… that can only mean…"

"The Untitled," she says, gazing at me with intense black eyes. "Yes."

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you think? I don't know how many of you have read the New 52 the Red Hood and the Outlaws, but I have started reading it and have gotten very interested in the plotlines in it. I said in the author's note I wrote prior this chapter that I would be drawing off it to make the story better, so I decided to bring in Essence and the Untitled to start. **

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter and don't mind too much that I kind of left it at a cliffhanger ending,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight :)**


	20. Chapter 19

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, Sherlock, or the Red Hood and the Outlaws**_

* * *

Jason's POV

I turned back towards Essence, gazing at her intently, though not quite sure I trust her.

"Even if what you're saying is true…" I begin, "none of this has anything to do with me. With _either _of us. The Untitled was the whole reason why the All Caste was formed all those centuries ago."

Essence looks at me grimly, her almond-shaped black eyes narrowed. "I am sorry to say the ancient order is no longer a consideration. Witness."

She takes out four blue stones, and flicks them into a puddle formed from the earlier London rain. Within it, images begin to form.

We both crouch beside it to see one of the halls of the Hundred Acres of All destroyed, and the dead body of an old woman in there.

"Is that… her?" I ask, emotions conflicting within me. Part of me wants to feel grief, but my stronger, more hostile side is yelling at me not to.

"You know that it is," Essence says calmly, moving slightly closer to me.

I stare down at the images with suppressed horror. "That's impossible. The All Caste is without any known equal. Nothing short of an alien invasion could do that."

I look up at Essence, glaring at her. "Why me?" I ask her hostilely, not trusting her. "Why don't you deal with this yourself?"

She gazes at me coldly, though her anger is not directed at me. "You know the answer to that better than _anyone. _You were there when I was _banned _from the All Caste."

She moves forward, taking my hands in her own, black-gloved ones. "Please, Jason," she begins, looking at me with hope in her pupil-less black eyes, "I know you vowed never to return, but please… for me."

I stare at her for a moment, willing myself to say no to her, but with our history, with how I loved her once, I find it impossible to do so.

I look away from her. "Fine. But, just tell me one thing. Why did you-?"

I look back at her and find her gone.

_Dammit. Teleportation is an unfair ability. It is one thing to disappear through stealth, but to up and vanish like that? It's just annoying, especially when you're trying to talk to someone and they do that._

I sigh. Essence always did teleport away when we were in the middle of conversations. Doesn't matter though; I have a feeling I will be seeing her again.

But now… now I have to leave. The All Caste live up in the Himalayan Mountains; if I am going to find out who killed Ducra, my mentor, and the rest of the men and women I trained with, then I have to leave London and head there.

Well, shouldn't be too much of a problem; Sherlock will merely be curious as to where I am going, and I can lie about that; besides, it's not like he really _cares _or anything. He's told me several times: he doesn't have friends.

Maybe that's why we got along as well as we did, because I don't have friends either.

First, I'll have to go to Hong Kong, after all, warriors of the All Caste shouldn't go anywhere concerning the All Caste or the Untitled without their All Blades, and I hid mine, along with a lot of other weaponry, in a safe house in Hong Kong.

I have safe houses everywhere: Paris, Tokyo, America, even here in London; it's actually where I was staying before moving in with Sherlock. Any place you can think of, I probably have a secret hideout there.

After all, robbing criminal masterminds is a good business, giving me plenty of money to afford those places.

In all the years I spent learning how to fight crime from Batman, there was one lesson he stressed again and again: Be prepared. Don't ever assume you're safe, even in your own home.

That may be why I don't trust anyone.

As I stalk down the alleyway, half wondering if I should just leave now and _not _tell Sherlock… it certainly would avoid unwanted questions, but I'd feel… _bad _if I did that, and I honestly have no idea _why _I'd feel bad about that.

It's not like I trust Sherlock, not like either of us consider each other friends or anything… do we?

Sherlock always stresses the fact that he doesn't _have _friends, and I haven't had anyone I felt comfortable with in a very long time.

Not since the explosion went off in that warehouse. I mean, sure I trusted Ducra, and Essence… she was more complicated, a bit like Talia, who I don't trust at all. And then there were the members of the All Caste, and the members of the League.

Ben, Bronze Tiger, I trusted him for a while, sort of… but not anymore. I'm not sure I would call even have called it trust… more like I just didn't think he would kill me back then, but he just wanted me to be an assassin, like Talia wanted, and when I wouldn't kill for the League, because it wasn't really justice… well, I don't know what Ben would do now. After all, he is one of the League's highest ranking members.

Lady Shiva and Cheshire I flat out never got along with. I'm half convinced that they were crazy, homicidal maniacs, but who am I to judge really? I rob and kill criminal masterminds.

December Graystone… I don't know if I would call him a friend. An acquaintance? Maybe? We trained together in the League. He used to go by Blood Mage, but doesn't anymore.

I have more enemies than allies, and I haven't had a friend in years, and the ones I did have, I could never fully trust. I wonder if that is why Sherlock doesn't have friends, because he is anti-social and distrusting.

I suddenly tense up, hearing footsteps behind me. It could just be some other random guy walking down the alley, getting home from a nightclub or something, but hey, I don't trust anyone.

Subtly, I put my hand on the holster of my gun, knowing that I have a spare knife and an emergency batarang on me as well, ready for a fight.

B certainly enjoys inducing paranoia in young children, but hey, sometimes that's a good thing. Maybe if I had been a little more cautious when I was younger, I wouldn't have died.

The footsteps are getting closer… a few more and the person following me will only be a few feet away.

I spin around, my gun drawn and pointed right at… Sherlock.

Sherlock's POV

* * *

"John!" I yell in an effort to calm him down. He must still be paranoid from getting kidnapped by Moriarty that anyone even walking near him is considered a threat.

Can't exactly say I blame him, after all, he has nearly died _twice _now and he is what? Twenty? I know he's also been abused in his past, obviously… people don't just _get _that hostile; it's beaten into them.

There's also a very subtle way he flinches when anyone comes to close. I know because neither Mycroft nor I have a sense of personal space, and though it is _very _slight and obviously restrained, it is not hard to tell he is not used to contact, or at least not contact that probably doesn't end in pain of some sort.

I feel a twinge of pain come into my chest, and almost blink in surprise. What… am I feeling… _compassion? _Sentiment? I… I don't feel these things. My emotions are always so restrained; I am a high-functioning sociopath, there is no way that I can be feeling such emotions.

Dammit, I'm lying to myself, aren't I?

"_Sherlock," _he growls out, obviously mad. Probably because I was trying to, and surprisingly failed at, sneaking up on him.

All right, maybe it wasn't the best idea to sneak up on someone who was recently kidnapped, and carries guns around, however I do love risking my life.

"What are you doing out here?" he snaps at me.

"I decided to follow you," I admit. "I wanted to make sure you didn't get kidnapped again."

"Yeah, well, I didn't," he growls, giving me that glare again. _Honestly, _where _on earth di he learn it?_

"Good, let's go back to the flat now," I say.

"I- I can't," he says.

"What? It's midnight, and it looks like it is going to rain, you can't sleep out here, not that you sleep that often," I say.

"No, Sherlock, I… I'm leaving London," he says.

My eyes widen in surprise. Maybe I misheard him, after all, one can only listen to Mycroft so much before they start to go deaf. "What?"

"Sherlock… I… look, an old… _acquaintance _of mine, she asked me to do something for her," he says, "and I need to help her. She can't do this herself."

"Who is she?" I ask, wondering who could possibly be so important they could take my best and only friend away from me.

"You don't know her," John says. "She's not from around here."

"But who _is _she," I press. "What does she need help with?"

"I can't share that with you," he shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"John-" I start, about to persuade him not to leave. After all, I never thought I would make a friend, and though I will _never _admit it, I finally have. And I am supposed to just let him leave? After he almost nearly died for what I know is the _second _time in his life?

Not happening.

"It's best if I leave now," he cuts me off. "Good bye, Sherlock."

He begins to walk away.

"John, John, wait," I start after him.

He turns around the corner of the alleyway, and I follow after him, only to find him not there.

What the…?

He's gone, but he won't lose me that easily.

I pull out my phone and dial a number.

It rings a few times, before picking up.

"Brother, dear," I put on a fake tone of happiness. "How are you?"

Whatever John is doing, he is going to get help. From me, and possibly from Mycroft, since I'll have to involve the idiot to track him, and if I involve him, he may not leave the situation alone.

No matter, it's worth it, even if I have to work with Mycroft.

* * *

**AN: Well, what do you think? Sorry about the wait, but I have been extremely busy, even though I thought summer would give me _more _time, not less, lol. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Sherlock really doesn't know what he is getting into... immortals, vigilantes, orders of warriors monks, ancient evils who remove human organs, etc.**

**Well, if you want to see how he reacts to all of this, (especially when we all know after the Hounds of Baskerville that Sherlock needs rational explanations and does not believe in monsters or magic... or coming back from the dead :) ), please review!**

**Thanks again for reading!**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	21. Chapter 20

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, Sherlock, or the Red Hood and the Outlaws**_

Sherlock's POV

* * *

"Let me get this straight, Sherlock," Mycroft says, staring at me judgingly, "the only person in this world who can stand you left last night? Maybe he just had enough?"

"No, that's not it, Mycroft," I snap. "And here I thought you at least had a little intelligence in that big head of yours."

He looks extremely offended. "Sherlock-"

"He randomly went for a walk last night and then when I found him, he was _clearly _shaken up about _something _and insisted that he had to leave, though it didn't look like he really wanted to, _understand?" _I say.

"Why did he have to leave?" Mycroft asks, sounding bored.

"He said an old acquaintance of his asked for help," I reply swiftly. "However he neglected to mention her name or _what _she needed help with. So, Mycroft, if you aren't going to use all your obnoxious, but occasionally useful connections, I will go search for John myself, alone, and then you will most likely never see me again, since I have no idea what I will be facing. It could be gang wars, terrorists… you never know. Ah, well, horrible knowing you, Mycroft."

I head towards the door.

"Wait."

I smirk, and turn back. "Yes?"

"Fine, I'll help you find him, but only because I think he has been an, er, good influence on you," Mycroft says.

"Good influence?" I look at him, feigning shock. "Have you _met _John?"

"Yes, Sherlock, and I don't mean he isn't hostile and scares pretty much every ordinary person away from him, I merely think it helps you to have a sort of… companion. A friend; it might help you a bit with your life-risking tendencies," Mycroft says.

"I don't have friends," I say instantly.

"John Watson may be ordinary, Sherlock, but we both know that what you just said is a lie," he says.

I glare at him.

"I'll get my people on it," Mycroft continues, smirking at me. "We should have something by tomorrow morning. Go home and sleep, Sherlock; we'll find your ordinary pet when the sun is up."

"John is _not _my pet," I snap defensively, not liking the way he was speaking about my… friend.

Mycroft smirks at me. "Fine, your ordinary _friend."_

I glare at him, but I say nothing. It is a truth, that I cannot deny.

Jason's POV

* * *

I wait on the flight to Hong Kong anxiously, thinking about Sherlock.

He is the first person I have even slightly trusted since dying other than Ducra.

_Ducra. _God, she's dead. I can't believe she's _dead._

Ducra was always so powerful. I never thought the old, immortal woman was even _capable _of dying.

I remember the first time I met her at the Hundred Acres of All. It's not a place on any map, maybe not even on any _world. _Both everywhere and nowhere.

I was brought there by Talia Al Ghul after my resurrection, which she still neglects to tell me the reason for.

The monks that intercepted us there were the All Caste, an ancient order of warriors that I eventually became a part of.

The monks stuck their spears in Talia and my faces, guarding Ducra from us. Ha, as if _we _could do _anything _to her!

I remember the first thing she said to me…

_Flashback._

"_My aren't you the puffy little man-child?" the old woman said, sardonic amusement in her voice._

_She moved closer, partially calling off her monk warriors._

_I immediately got defensive, not liking the fact that she called me man-child, not realizing that eventually it would grow on me up until the point where I miss being called that. "The name is Jas-" I started to defend myself._

"_Shush," the old bat cut me off. "Bow before your superior, man-child."_

_I got down on one knee and patted her on the head. "I might if I ever meet one, but I don't do the whole bowing thing, Grammy."_

_The look on her face was one of pure outrage at my insolence._

_Behind me, Talia warned, "Jason, I wouldn't-"_

_But it was too late. Ducra flipped me over by the arm, slamming me into the ground, triggering a pressure point and knocking me unconscious."_

"_Never mind," Talia had said, her voice embarrassed._

_Okay, that wasn't my shining moment. Talia was risking a lot by bringing me here. Her father, Ra's Al Ghul, was already pissed that she had tossed me into the Lazarus Pit, and here I was, embarrassing her in front of her friends._

_After flipping me, Ducra still held onto my arm for a moment, and she began to speak to my unconscious form. "I've been doing this for three thousand years, and it took you six seconds to torque me off. That has _got _to be some kind of record._

"_You're out cold now," she continued. "Which means you are useless. Defenseless. And mercifully silent."_

_She stood up. "I can still train you to fight when you are unconscious. I can mold you into the most skilled assassin in the world. All you have to do… is stop being such a _yutz."

_Ducra turned towards Talia. "Seriously, Talia, what am I supposed to do with that lump of rage?_

"_Admittedly," Talia said, "Jason is… complicated. He was recently raised from the dead for reasons we may never know. His body eventually healed from its injuries, making it perfectly fine, but his soul was absent, until-"_

"_Until you tossed him into the Lazarus Pit," Ducra answered for her. "I can _smell _it on him. I am _certain _that went over real well with your father."_

"_He was surprisingly supportive of my choice," Talia said as I began to stir from my place on the floor. "Before he was murdered, Jason had the potential to be a great man. I believe with the proper guidance, that can still be the case. I believe he deserves that chance."_

"_You're wrong," Ducra said as I began to get up. "He is going to be the death of us. Of many."_

"_So, no?" Talia asked. "you won't train him in the ways of the All Caste."_

"_Of course I will," Ducra said. "The thought of leaving him to the rest of the world- of leaving the rest of the world at the mercy of _him, _is _unacceptable."

_She was a smart lady, Ducra._

_End of flashback._

That was a long time ago.

I gaze out the window, still thinking about how the All Caste changed me, wondering how I am going to deal with finding all of their bodies dead in the Hundred Acres of All.

I should have never left.

* * *

Sherlock's POV

"A flight to Hong Kong?" I ask. "You're sure?" What reasons could John have to possibly go to Hong Kong?

"Of _course _I'm sure, Sherlock," Mycroft snaps.

"Great, I'll be going then," I say, turning to head towards the door.

"Wait, no, I am not letting you go alone," Mycroft says.

"Why not?" I whine. I had hoped Mycroft would just let it slide and let me leave, after all, I am far cleverer than him, even if Mycroft isn't ordinary.

"Because, like you said before, brother dear, you and John against gang wars or whatever this is, is a battle that may just get you killed," he says, "and we both know how that would upset Mummy. So, brother, shall we go to my private jet?"

* * *

**AN: Well, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. I started it yesterday and finished writing the very end today. I would have gotten it up sooner, but I have been busy going to the gym, writing my novels, and martial arts lessons, but I have it up now. Next we'll be seeing Jason going to Hong Kong to get his weapons before going to the Hundred Acres of All, and Sherlock and Mycroft will be following him there. It may just end chaotically, lol.**

**Thanks again for reading! :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	22. Chapter 21

**_Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, Sherlock, the Red Hood and the Outlaws, Batman: Under the Red Hood, or any other story I am using to make this fic._**

Sherlock's POV

* * *

I can't believe I have to sit on a plane alone with Mycroft and his bodyguards for the next few hours.

I resist the urge to sigh in frustration. At least Mycroft's jet is extremely fast for a plane.

In about four to six hours, we will be in Hong Kong, and I can get my only friend back. it doesn't matter how either; if I have to kidnap him to get him to come back to the flat with me or at least accept help, then I will.

Now I just have to wait as Mycroft and I glare at each other in silence until we get there.

Hmmm, I wonder if I could try to imitate John's glare…

Jason's POV

When I get off the plane, I rent out a car and drive to my nearby safehouse.

Bruce's message runs through my mind once more: Be prepared. Don't ever assume you're safe, even in your own home.

Sometimes I wonder if he should have been telling an eleven-year-old that, but hey, I already was on edge from growing up on the streets. He just added on to the paranoia I already had to make it extremely intense.

I can hear that I have company before they make themselves present.

_Shit, _I think. _Okay, walk towards the plants, where you hide the guns in the pots. They'll never see it coming._

As I make my way towards them, she comes out, her henchmen with her.

"As I live and breathe!" the woman exclaims. "Jason Todd has gone and come _back _to the homestead… and with out my _fainting couch!"_

I suppress a smirk, remembering the last time I pissed her off. "I don't even need to turn around to know that's you, Suzie Su," I say, still gazing forward. "The unique scent of undercarriage just wafts through the night air."

I turn around slowly, putting my hands up, prepared to let them dive into the plants beside me and tear out the guns I hid in there, gazing at the overweight red-haired woman in a green dress that is Suzie Su.

"You're not going to shoot an unarmed man, are you?" I ask with false innocence.

"You _wish," _she snarls. "I'm going to start by tearing off your-"

my hands dive into the plants. "Now who's wishing?"

I rip the guns from their hidden location in the plants and shoot at both Su and her men, killing the two men, and knocking Su over, though she is still alive, for now. Pretty soon those wounds will kill her.

I stalk over to stand by her wounded body, gazing down at her. "If it means anything… I didn't come to town to do this. I was going to leave the whole Familia de Flores be. See, I'm here on a _personal _matter."

"Bull… crap…" she slurs, her voice sounding in pain.

"Would I ever lie to you?" I ask. "After everything that happened the last time I did?"

There was a time when I might have actually enjoyed putting down Suzie Su and her hired guns, but now? Not so much. I honestly wish she hadn't attacked me tonight; I was honestly going to leave her alone, despite all the fights we got into last time we saw each other.

"When my daddy finds out…" Su slurs, her make-up covered eyes closing.

I pad up to a table and remove the top, the inside revealing all my weapons and a back up costume, helmet, and mask that I had left here.

"I'll kill him too, promise," I tell her. "I got what I came for. See you _never."_

I gather up the stuff inside the table, and stalk out of there, a strange eerie feeling telling me I am being watched.

I hope I am just being paranoid as usual.

* * *

Sherlock's POV

John just shot that woman and her men.

I stare. Sure he had killed people before, he even killed that taxi driver to save my life, but that… that was unexpected. He knew that woman, and they obviously both had grudges against each other.

What has John been doing in his life that has gotten him in these kinds of situations… and what is it that she called him?

_Jason. Jason Todd._

Oh, I've heard that name before. Where… where did I hear it…? Oh!

No, no it can't be. Jason Todd is dead. He died in a bombing in Ethiopia. How can…?

Unless he didn't really die.

He has some explaining to do, that is, if I don't figure out the whole story before he can.

Sorry, Mycroft, I don't think I'll be going back to your jet like I promised. I have a friend to catch, and to question.

* * *

Jason's POV

I hear the footsteps behind me.

My body tense, and my hand moves down to the holster of my gun.

As soon as the person is right behind me, I spin around at lightning speed, whipping out my weapon as I sink into a fighting stance, and then I stop.

"_Sherlock?"_

In my moment of hesitation, Sherlock whips the weapon out of my hand and pins me to the wall.

I am about to retaliate, when he says, "Jason Todd, huh?"

My eyes widen fractionally. "What?"

"The woman back there, the one you killed, remember her?" Sherlock says, still pinning me to the wall. "She called you Jason Todd. Why on _earth _would she call you by the name of a dead fourteen-year-old from Gotham who was blown up in Ethiopia?"

I rip free of him, disarming him before he can grab me again. "Ask her."

"She's dead!" Sherlock exclaims. "John, _Jason, _whatever your real name is, tell me the truth: are you really Jason Todd, and if so, how are you still alive when there are records that have declared you dead, and your body was buried seven years ago?"

I stare at Sherlock as he stares at me, and I know that there is no more running.

He has found out. The only way to stop this now would be to kill him, and I am not going to hurt Sherlock. Maybe… maybe he _is _my friend.

"It's a long story," I whisper.

"Well come on," Sherlock says, grasping me by the shoulders, tightening his grip when I try to flinch away. "We have plenty of time."

He begins to steer me off, and for once, I let someone take me to an unknown location.

Maybe I do trust Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock's POV

I push my only friend through the door to the hotel room I rented out, pulling over some chairs. "Sit," I command.

"I'd rather stand," John-Jason-whatever his real name is-says to me.

I sigh in annoyance, and push him down into the chair.

"Hey-" he start, about to get back up.

"Now is _not _the time to be stubborn," I say, "after all, it is a long story, and I don't think we should stay standing for it, do you."

He glares at me as I sit across from him.

"Now, begin, I will try not to make very many deductions while you talk, and don't lie," I say, staring at him intently, "I'll know if you do."

Slowly, his glare slips, and he sighs. "Where do I even _begin?"_

"The beginning?" I suggest.

"I don't want to talk about the beginning," he says.

"The end?" I sigh.

He winces. "The end is even worse."

"John!"

"That's not my name," he says.

"It's Jason Todd, isn't it," I say. It is not a question.

He nods. "Yeah."

"How are you alive?" I ask.

"I shouldn't be," Jason says.

"What happened?" I ask, staring at him intently, looking for signs that would allow me to deduce what happened.

"I blew up," he says.

"Don't joke," I say. "What really happened?"

His eyes grow cold. "I _blew up."_

"How did you live?"

"I didn't," he says, a dark, distant look in his eyes.

"That's not possible," I say, staring at him.

"It shouldn't be," he says. "I wish it wasn't."

I bop him upside the head. "Don't talk like that."

"Says the guy who risks his life just to prove he's smarter than everyone else," Jason growls. "God, you are _so _much like B."

"B?" I say. "Who's B? A friend? A brother?"

"My boss," Jason mutters darkly.

"Your… _boss?_

"He… he adopted me," Jason says.

"You were employed as a child? That's illegal, isn't it?" I say.

"We did a lot of illegal things," he laughs bitterly.

"I was his protégé… his second one," Jason says.

"Why'd you lie about your name?" I ask.

"Because I am supposed to be dead, and I… I don't want to be found," he says. "Look how that worked out."

"Just tell me the story," I say.

He looks up at me, and then begins to tell me everything.

* * *

_Flashback._

_Jason's POV_

_I sneak back up to the car to get the last tire, and there he is._

_I stare at him with wide blue eyes, watching as the Dark Knight stares at me. "Well, come to finish the job, boy?"_

_I try to hide the tire iron, but I know it is too late for that._

Shit, _I think. _It's one thing to get away from a criminal, but to get away from the freaking BATMAN?

_I'm so screwed._

_He stalks right up to me, and I instinctively prepare for a fight._

"_You're going to give me back my tires," he says._

"_Who says I took 'em?" I ask. I can always play dumb if I have to._

"_What else is the tire iron for?" he demands, towering over me._

"_This!" I yell, slamming it into his ribcage and running away as fast as I can._

_End of flashback._

* * *

Jason's POV

"You… stole the tires off the batmobile?" Sherlock says. "And got away with it?"

"No, he caught me," I mutter.

"Uh, huh," Sherlock says, staring at me. "And, what, did he arrest you?"

I shake my head. "No, he made me return his tires and then sent me to an _orphanage."_

"That doesn't explain how you died, but are some how alive," Sherlock says.

"You asked me to start at the beginning," Jason murmurs. "The orphanage he took me to turned out to be run by a criminal organization. I helped him take it down. At that time, his first partner, who now goes by Nightwing, had quit working him about a year ago, and frankly, I don't blame him."

"I remember that," Sherlock says. "I knew immediately when I saw footage of his work that it was the original Robin. But the second one died in Ethiopia… the same place you did. OH! It all makes _sense."_

"It does?"

"Of _course _it does," Sherlock says. "You "died" in the field as Robin, and Batman covered up your true identity's "death" by saying you died in the bombing that had been set up there."

"Yeah, something like that," I mutter darkly. The only thing Sherlock has wrong is that my death shouldn't be treated like it was faked.

I wonder what he will say when I tell him I was resurrected.

"Look, Sherlock, this is a really long story, and I do need to help that friend I mentioned to you," I say. "Is there any chance we can continue this conversation after I do what she asked me to?"

He purses his lips in annoyance. "I won't rest until I know the whole story, but I guess this is more fun anyway; I get to deduce it."

"You won't deduce everything," I growl.

"We'll see," Sherlock smirks, "just tell me one thing: what's your friend's name?"

I turn to look directly at him. "Essence."

* * *

**AN: I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, because I am not sure I got all the characterization right, and I am sorry I didn't finish the entire story, but I kind of want to keep Sherlock guessing as to everything that happened in Jason's past for a little while longer. It did not seem like the right time to tell the whole story, just a bit of it. Right now Sherlock knows Jason was the second Robin, but he thinks his death was faked and does not know everything that happened afterwards with the League of Assassins and the All Caste, but I promise he will find out soon enough, and at some point I think Bruce, Dick, Babs, and Alfred will have to find out Jason is not exactly dead anymore. **

**Also, I know that I said that Jason died in Sarajevo before, because that is what it said in Batman: Under the Red Hood, but I am following the comics a little more now and saying he died in Ethiopia, and he also has only been alive for six years, as I said before, but I am pretty sure Jason was in a coffin for a year before coming back to life and then being dipped in the Lazarus Pit by Talia, so I said seven years ago because of that extra year.**

**Well, thanks again for reading,**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


	23. Chapter 22

_**Disclaimer: I don't own Batman, the Red Hood and the Outlaws, or Sherlock**_

Jason's POV

* * *

We're in a plane somewhere above the Himalayan Mountains as a storm rages, but I know we are very close to the Hundred Acres of All.

I never thought I would come back here, nor did I ever think I would bring someone with me, but Sherlock looks plenty eager to see what Essence needed help with.

I don't think he is expecting mystic orders of assassins, even if I _did _confess to being Robin once.

"So, why the helmet?" Sherlock asks me.

"I call myself the Red Hood," I say with a shrug.

"The Red Hood? Wasn't that an identity used by the Joker once?" Sherlock asks.

My eyes darken, but he cannot see it with my mask and helmet between them and his vision. He just _had _to have _that _in his mind palace. Couldn't he have deleted it?

"Yeah," I say.

The Chinese**(1)** woman, Meili, flying the plane, yells back at me, "I don't care what you did to save my village, Red hood, this freak storm is going to fy my bucket! I'm turning this thing around, _now!"_

Meili was always a tough girl. When her village was in danger and showed up to help, she immediately offered her assistance.

"No problem," I say to her. "We're good."

"You saved a village?" Sherlock looks intrigued.

I've opened the exit door of the plane. The wind blows at Sherlock and I as we stand by it, gazing out at the stormy night, hearing more thunder and seeing more flashes of lightning.

"Get away from that door and strap yourself in, you- you _lunatics!" _Meili yells at us, but I jump out of the plane, hearing Sherlock follow me.

"Red Hood?" Meili calls, but she knows we left now. "God speed, Jason… _wherever _you're going."

"Grab onto me," I tell Sherlock as I pull out the Blades of All.

"I hope you have a plane," he says mildly, not at all alarmed by the fact that we are free falling through the stormy night sky without parachutes.

I smirk. "Of course. Now grab on."

He does so, his trench coat billowing in the wind, and I activate the Blades of All, feeling the blue sparks ignite on them as they turn into glider wings.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asks, looking mildly impressed by my blades. "and how did your swords do that? Do they have glider components hidden in them?"

"No, they're magic," I say, "and we're going this way."

"Into a wall?" Sherlock sounds mildly alarmed as we fly towards the wall, not knowing that it is the portal to the Hundred Acres of All.

"You wanted to come," I remind him.

We crash through the portal, or rather Sherlock does when he lets go of me, and I land in a crouch on the floor of the temple.

Sherlock gets up quickly. "You're not as ordinary as you led me to believe."

I smirk at him. "I'm a good actor."

"I'll say," Sherlock says. "Where are we, Jo-Jason?"

"This is the Hundred Acres of All," I whisper.

Just like that, I am back where I started. I'm back where it all began. Not when a young street punk got the opportunity to become the world's most famous sidekick. Or the part where I was beaten to death by the Joker. When I came back to life as little more than a zombie… until Talia tossed me into the Lazarus Pit. No, in a lot of ways, my life didn't really start until I came here.

I stand up, staring forward at the seen of brutally slaughtered warriors.

I've seen a lot of horrible things in my life, some of them even at my own hand, but this…

My eyes find Ducra's fallen body on the floor, and I feel a pang in my chest. Ducra… my second mentor. The one who actually told me that I could get past all the rage inside me, even if I didn't believe her.

I walk up to her body, crouching beside her. Sherlock follows me, his footsteps so quiet I doubt I could have picked them up if I wasn't a bat.

I don't care that he is standing right next to me right now, I need to apologize to her, even if she is not here to hear me.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here for you, Ducra," I whisper to her. "I'm sorry you sent me away. I'm sorry I _let _you."

"Jason-" Sherlock starts, but breaks off as blue-white mist begins to rise up out of Ducra's body, taking on her appearance.

"no time for tears, man-child," she says. "Nor regrets. An Untitled was here, more powerful than ever."

"Here? That's _madness," _I say, my eyes wide as I cradle her dead body in my arms.

"It awayed with Azar," she says. "It broke into the Chamber of All."

"I'll find it, Ducra," I say solemnly. "I will avenge you _all."_

Her spirit reaches out to touch my cheek. "Pish. Always the avenging with you. It's as if you've learned _nothing, _Jason Todd. Keep your heart free of vengeance. I will see you in a better place."

"But not _too _soon, teacher," I say, drawing my guns.

"She was your teacher?" Sherlock says. "I thought Batman was your teacher."

I sigh. "I can have more than one teacher. After I… left Batman, I trained with the All Caste."

"What exactly is going on here, Jo-Jason?"

"It's a long story," I say.

"Is everything a long story with you?"

"Yes," I reply, and then _they _come out.

An army of undead reanimated corpses, the corpses of the All Caste's warriors.

A flash goes through my mind.

"_You've learned quickly, Jason, but your anger makes you sloppy."_

"_Remember that when you wake up."_

"_Focus, Jason. See past your past."_

"_Too much?"_

"_Puh-lease."_

"_You're getting faster, Jason."_

"_Or _you're _getting slower, old man."_

The guns fall from my grip, clattering on the floor.

I can't shoot them. Even though they are nothing more than reanimated corpses, they don't deserve to die like that, and not by my hand.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asks as I get into a fighting stance. "Are you going to fight an army without weapons?"

"Yes," I say.

He stares at me. "You're crazier than I originally deduced."

"Thank you," I say as my first attacker lunges at me.

Sherlock picks up the fallen guns. He doesn't owe the All Caste anything, so he will have no problem with shooting them, like me.

This is going to be a long fight.

* * *

I stab the last of the warriors with my All Blades, watching as he crumples to the ground.

"Well," Sherlock says. "Now that that's over- you're thinking about sentiment, aren't you?"

I sigh. "It's not something I commonly do, but… _yeah. _They were _warriors, _Sherlock. They were _teachers. _They may have been the greatest people I have _ever _known."

"Greater than Batman, your mentor?" he asks.

"Batman and I don't get along," I say.

"Why not?" Sherlock asks.

"We… had a falling out," I reply.

"You're not telling me everything," Sherlock says.

"No, I'm not," I say. "Come on, let's go kick some ass."

"Didn't we just?"

I chuckle. "Sherlock, we still have to enter the Chamber of All, and then find the Untitled. You're welcome to go back to London, but I'm-"

He strides forward, grabbing my arm and dragging me off. "You're not getting rid of me that easily. Which way."

I pull free of his grasp. "Left."

* * *

**AN: I'm sorry it's been so long since I last updated, but I have been incredibly busy with other things and haven't found the time to write. I promise I'll get back on this, and don't be afraid to yell at me to continue through a review or a PM if it's been a while since my last update. I hope you liked the character interactions. Now that Jason isn't pretending to be someone else, he can reveal more of his street smarts, and Sherlock has a lot of questions about Jason's past, (though Jason may not answer them all right off the bat since he doesn't like talking about his past), and since Sherlock is _Sherlock_, he is intrigued and interested in who Jason was before and is now rather than angry that his only friend lied to him.**

**(1) I was not meaning to be racist when I called Meili Chinese, I was merely describing her. I also don't know if the woman who took Jason and Roy to the Hundred Acres of All in the comics was actually named Meili, but since they didn't say what her name was, I just came up with one.**

**Well, thanks for reading! :)**

**-DragonsintheMoonlight**


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